Jesse's Story: Book 1
by Eponymy91
Summary: I adore the Mediator, and I adore Jesse, and I just didn't think the book gave us enough of him, so I wrote this. I know it's been done over and over, but I really couldn't help myself. Reviews are true love!
1. One

**One**

I stood in a strategic corner of the Operation Theatre, masking my presence carefully so as not to frighten the patient. He may have been unconscious, but being close to death makes the living more attuned to the presence of any kind of otherworldly activity, which in this case included me, what with me being a ghost.

This made observing many operations a little difficult, but a little extra concentration could usually solve that. My position afforded me a clear view of the surgeons' actions. I watched intently as they finally drained all of the blood that had escaped the organs in the patient's abdomen, and then began the slow, minute process of stitching together the severed walls of the stomach. They were doing a very fine job.

My hands tingled – of course, that was just my imagination, there were no real nerves in them to cause it – but I could not help it. This was one of those times when I wished even more than usual that I could be alive, that I could be made of matter, that I could be one of the green-masked, performing such complex operations, saving lives. Instead, I was left to wish I still had mine,forced to do nothing more than admire the flawless way they finished the most difficult part of their task.

There were definite upsides to being a ghost, few as they were. We could travel anywhere we wanted, see whatever sights we wanted to see, and as in my case, observe and learn whatever interested us. Of course, we had no role to play in any of the above. But that thought belonged in the giant, bleak category of downsides, and it was better not to dwell on those.

I had seen the steps that the surgeons would take next plenty of times however, so I closed my eyes and gave in to the pull that was ever present whenever I left the house I had lost my life in.

When I opened them, I was taken aback for a second. Then I remembered, and felt my lips twitch as I looked around. The room looked so much like something Isabela, my youngest sister, would have wanted had our parents agreed. The flowered walls, the canopied bed, the frilly dressing table, not to mention the addition of a whole bathroom; all of it had transformed the room into a young, princess-like girl's haven. Mr. Ackerman had missed a few details of course, like the old deadbolt on the door, and the similar, original latch on the closet, but apart from that the transformation was complete. I even preferred it this way, as I could barely recognise it as the room that had been the scene of my own murder.

I picked up the book I had borrowed from a shelf downstairs, a Jack London novel, sitting down on the window seat (another great improvement), all the while trying to revise the operation I had observed, memorizing how it was done. Although, as I flipped the pages of the book idly, I found myself wondering instead about the new inhabitant who would be arriving shortly. In the next hour, if I was not mistaken.

I was not too worried about her – it had been a long time, maybe even a century, but I had shared this room with inhabitants, some of them female, when the building was a boarding house. Avoiding materializing in the room while they were changing or had a 'guest' was easy – we could sense these things. They barely ever sensed us, and it was fine. I never chose to stay in the house beyond the requisite one hourevery twelve hours anyway.

No, what I wondered about was the strange, funny mismatch between what I'd heard about this girl and the way this room had been prepared. For the most part, Mr. Ackerman had renovated it himself, with a few of his colleagues, and their conversation was all that I'd heard. But Mrs. Ackerman, his new wife and the girl's mother, I found out, came in now and then too.

Once, just a few days ago actually, she had come in as Mr. Ackerman surveyed the room, put her arms around him from behind and rested her head on his shoulder. It had made me smile, reminding me of own parents and their affection. Then she'd said "I really, really hope she'll like it. I know it's not her style at all, but I just couldn't help myself." Mr. Ackerman had kissed her hand and answered cheerfully, "She will, sweetheart, you'll see. No one can resist the love you've put into this thing. Besides, once she sees the view, she'll never want to leave." Mrs. Ackerman had smiled, "I hope you're right. I just wanted to make a happy, welcoming space for my baby. I guess I'm hoping that will help in her making a new start, and not get into trouble again."

Mr. Ackerman just turned to kiss her reassuringly, and I left, giving them their privacy.

I had wondered what the 'new start' and the 'trouble' comments meant, and was answered when, later the same day, Mr. Ackerman enlisted the help of his three sons – amusing characters, all of them, by the way – to finish up the girl's bathroom. When they had all entered, he had looked outside furtively, shut the door, turned to his sons and said, "Now listen up, kids. I think you might know this already, but your new step-sister has a history of getting into random scrapes with the police or into the hospital –"

"Is she in a gang?" the oldest one had interrupted, although he did not look at all concerned. I found that strange on many levels, not least of which was his unconcern that a gang member might be joining the family. But that might have been just because he was tired.

"No! I doubt any of it is voluntary, she's actually a very sweet girl. Even Helen's not sure where this comes from, but I just want you three looking out for her, okay? Just try to stop her from getting into any difficult situations, you know what I mean? She's a part of this family now, and it's your job to protect her."

Even I was moved by his instructions, and the youngest one nodded enthusiastically. The oldest, though, mumbled "Sure," and the second one merely shrugged and said "She doesn' look like the kind who needs taking care of, though, Dad."

"I know, Brad, but I want you to do it anyway, am I clear?"

This earned him a nod, and they moved to finish the bathroom, while I decided I would do what I could to help. I already liked this family, and because I was tied to this house, I felt it was my responsibility in some way (I am guessing the way the room reminded me of Isabela had a part to play too though).

The girl sounded nothing like Isabela though. It was while I was thinking this that I was startled by voices downstairs. They had arrived.

I listened as the voices and sound of footsteps moved upstairs, onto the landing of this floor. It sounded like Mrs. Ackerman was talking about the beauty of the view and the room and all the work that had gone into it. I wondered how all that would be received by the maybe-gangster-troubled-enough-to-need-looking-out-for young girl. In a minute, they were right outside the door. I straightened and put the book away, under the cushions, swinging the leg I'd put up back to the floor. The doorknob turned.

They entered, first Mr. Ackerman, who held the door open and presented the room with a flourish to Mrs. Ackerman and the girl, who stepped in right after.

I am not sure what I had been expecting. I suppose I had subconsciously expected someone like Isabela, or maybe the polar opposite, someone like the 15-year-old runaways I saw on the streets near stations, no blonde hair like Isabela's, dyed black instead; some rugged girl, maybe with torn, ripped old clothes.

And make no mistake, the clothes very much looked the part. It was just that the girl in them was really beautiful.

It was as I was thinking this that she turned to the window, and I found her eyes – emerald green – looking right into mine. I blinked. Or, I corrected myself, the view behind my head.

Which is why her reaction was so confusing. She took one look at me - I beg your pardon, the view – and her shoulders slumping, she let out a sigh of disappointment and looked like she was trying to keep from shouting something. She spun around to face her mother and new father. I suppose her expression had not changed, because her mother looked disappointed too and sadly said, "Oh Suze, not again."


	2. Two

**Author's Note: **This chapter was a lot of fun to write! :D Many thank-you's to **Miami Blackheart** and **Blue Brat24 **for being my first two reviewers. Replies are after the chapter. I hope you enjoy it. :)

Exploring Jesse is a lot of fun. Enjoy! Do review, it really makes my day.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Mediator or any of the characters or original dialogue, more's the pity.

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**Two**

_Qué sucedió? _I thought perplexedly.

Apparently, _Suze_ (Susan? Suzanne?) was not just inexplicably upset by the lofty view of the town of Carmel this, my/her room afforded, one that I had always thought magnificent. No, she had apparently also had similar reactions before, enough times to cause her mother disappointment as opposed to surprise, and sadness as opposed to bewilderment or anger. I contemplated the possibility that 'Suze' might actually be prone to bouts of slight mental illness, as opposed to just being eccentric or emotionally troubled as I had assumed from what I had heard. If that were the case, then Mrs. Ackerman's anxiety might actually be perfectly placed, instead of being the typical excessive mother's worry that I had thought initially. I felt a pang for the good lady.

'Suze' (I wished I knew her proper name. Suze was a strange nickname to refer to a girl as. It sounded like _squeeze_. Or _booze_. I almost laughed out loud.) paused for a moment, then spoke for the first time.

"Never mind, Mom. Everything's fine," she said reassuringly, turning to face her mother completely. Under her distinctly New York-accent, her voice was low-pitched and confident, with an unexpectedly sweet note under running it. If a person's mental stability could be told by their voice, I would definitely have classified her as stable. "The room is great. Thanks so much."

Her mother's countenance remained downcast. "Well," she said slowly, scanning her daughter's face. "Well, I'm glad you like it. I was sort of worried. I mean, I know how you get about…well, old places."

I raised an eyebrow. Eccentric, unquestionably. What was wrong with old places? They were usually much more beautiful than modern constructions.

The girl – I'd given up on 'Suze' – shook her head, and continuing her comforting tone, said, "Really, Mom. It's great. I love it."

Though Mrs. Ackerman did not look convinced, and even I wondered if her tone wasn't maybe too perfect, Mr. Ackerman seemed very encouraged by this. He showed it by immediately moving to the far wall and pointing up to the speaker attached in the top corner and the similar one in another corner, "See these, Suze?" he said excitedly. "I put these up so you can hook them up to your TV, or your CD player and have surround sound. We expect you to use them reasonably though!" He joked, wagging a finger in her direction. She broke into a smile and walked over to him, looking up at the speaker. "You didn't have to do that! Thank you so much."

"We wanted to. And hold on to your thanks, young lady, we're not done. Watch this," he enthused, clapping his hands. The lights went off. "There, now you try it." Her eyebrows arched, the girl clapped her hands twice. The room was lit again.

I sat back, smiling. I had watched Mr. Ackerman install all this, even give himself a minor injury once. It was a sweet scene, the conclusion of all that work. The girl seemed genuinely delighted by all of it, as he moved around the room, showing her all the features and conveniences he had taken care to provide. However, she did not turn to look at the view again, which was, with all due respect to her stepfather, the best part.

Thirty minutes and thirty-nine great features about the room later, he was finished, although he looked like he was racking his brains to find more things to show her and boast about. He gave his stepdaughter and his wife a wide smile. "Well, I think that's everything. Suze, do you need our help unpacking?" She shook her head and said "No, I'm good, thanks for offering, though."

He rubbed his hands together and said, "Well then, I'm going to go down and get that barbecue started, okay, sweetheart?" he said to Mrs. Ackerman. "We're making you surf and turf tonight, Suze."

They gave him identical winning smiles, and the girl's mother walked over to him and gave him a quick kiss. "Thanks so much, honey."

"You're welcome. I'm glad you're happy. See you downstairs in forty-five, Suze! Welcome home," he grinned. He walked out, closing the door behind him. The brothers, who had been hovering outside, had long since left, the older two to go surfing, the younger one, very characteristically, to conduct some kind of experiment. (I decided I would go see what later – he was a little genius, that one, and I had found his observations very advanced. Most of the books I borrowed from this family were from his shelves.)

"Is it _really _all right, Suze?" Mrs. Ackerman asked her daughter after the sound of her husband's footsteps had faded away. "I know it's a big change. I know it's asking a lot of you - "

Now, in case you are wondering what I was doing still sitting there, in the middle of this mother-daughter time, let me restate what I said earlier: I am, after all, a ghost and not a living man, and ghosts' roles in the life and events of the living are usually close to zero.

_Si_, we could nudge things along here and there. However, I was not particularly interested in leaving messages or unnecessarily moving things around and generally interfering with those who could not see or tell the cause. I was not sure whether or not I belonged on Earth, in this world, this plane of existence, _lo que. _But I was not inclined to do anything immoral regardless. Influencing the natural course of events in neutral matters – such as giving scientists, politicans, or researchers ideas that occurred to me that would, I knew, thanks to more than a century of observation, make them more successful – was unneeded.

Interfering where my supernatural powers could prevent gross injustice or harm, however, was another matter. I even had a brief period where I took on the role of some kind of hero, stopping whatever crimes I could. But I made a few mistakes, stopping what I thought was the attacker only to find them the victim – I have never condemned myself in all my existence more than I did then. I realized then that intervening without knowing the background was wrong, and finding it out would take too long and make any action too late. I turned instead, back to learning all I could about the world in general, and medical science in particular. There was so much to learn that sometimes, being dead almost seemed insignificant.

But going back to the gross harm point – more than one hundred and fifty years of being a ghost makes one used to simply 'eavesdropping', because it is not the same as if one were alive. I intended on finding out as much as I could about this young woman and her problems, so that I could help her exemplary parents in keeping her from trouble. This was a rare opportunity – finding the background, and then preventing any harm. It was my responsibility, too, I reasoned, since she was living in the room I was tied to – why else would I be pulled back here for sixty minutes every twelve hours?

All of the above reasons are why I did not leave while the two women talked. Apart from the minor fact that I was really curious about 'Suze'.

She took off the black leather jacket she had been wearing, and threw it on the bed. "It's fine, Mom," she said nonchalantly. She still had not looked in my – that is, the window's – direction. "Really."

"I mean, asking you to leave Grandma, and Gina, and New York," her mother said emphatically, sitting down on the canopied bed. "It's selfish of me, I know. I know things haven't been…well, easy for you. Especially since Daddy died."

I sat up straighter. Could this be a possible explanation? Her father had not divorced her mother, he had passed away.

"Suzie, I've been hoping that this, moving here, might make it easier on you. It's a completely different coast, it's completely new people, it's a completely different culture. It'll be like a fresh start, for both of us."

The girl, leaving the suitcase she had opened, leaned against the bedpost and nodded. "I know."

No resentment or denial, that's for sure. No characteristic refutation or anger that might have signalled she might have been partly certifiable.

"I'm glad. But Suzie, I really think you'll be happier if you take full advantage of this opportunity. You've grown into such a pretty girl, and the people who'll see you now, they won't be the same people who remember you as a child and all the antics you and Gina used to get up to. They might even be intimidated by you, because you know, we're from 'New York'," her mother put air quotes around the word, "and everything. So you have to put on your best, most pleasant face. If you don't make an effort and try to project a really friendly demeanour this time though, you might end up with no or few friends again. And you deserve better than that, Suzie, you really do."

That cleared it up, a little. It was probably not a psychological or emotional problem at all. It was just a voluntary attitude. I should have guessed, from what was probably the voluntary shabbiness of her clothes.

But then the girl nodded again, and said sincerely, "I know, Mom, I'll try." I was confused again. How could someone so pleasant have an attitude problem? I was going to have to get to the bottom of this, eventually.

"Well," Mrs. Ackerman said, exhaling in a rush after her long address, and her daughter straightened and moved back to the suitcase. "I guess if you don't want help unpacking, I'll go see how Andy is doing with dinner."

I could hear the smile in her voice as she looked back from the suitcase and answered, "Yeah, Mom, you go do that. I'll just get settled in here, and I'll be down in a minute."

Her mother nodded in response and moved to the door. When her hand was on the doorknob, however, she turned, and I saw there were tears in her eyes. "I just want you to be happy, Suzie. That's all I've ever wanted. Do you think you can be happy here?"

Mothers were all the same, I thought, smiling. Excessive worriers. The girl walked over, her boots clicking on the floor and embraced her tightly. "Sure, Mom," she said cheerfully. "Sure, I'll be happy here. I feel at home already."

Her mother hugged her back and then pulled away to look at her. "Really?" she said, still looking tearful. "You swear?"

I did not know what she was so unconvinced about. I found the girl completely persuading, but then, obviously, she knew more than I did.

"I do," her daughter said wholeheartedly.

Mrs. Ackerman left, then, and the girl closed the door behind her. I was considering dematerializing – the requisite sixty minutes were long over, and she might want to change. But I was still curious. Even more so, when I realized she was still standing there, her hand on the doorknob, listening until the sound of her mother's shoes could not be heard any more. I sat up straight again, waiting to see what she would do.

She turned around, finally, to face the window behind me again. Her eyes – incredibly bright, and at the moment piercing – were looking right into mine again, and she was frowning.

"All right. Who the hell are you?"

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**Miami Blackheart - **Thank you so much! I'm really glad you like it. And I agree with you. Jesse's POV usually makes me swoon in no time. ;D I intend on updating pretty regularly. Thank you for reading and putting it in your alerts 3

**Blue Brat24 - **Thank you for reading and putting it in your alerts. :) I fully intend on completing this story. It'll take a while, but I definitely do not intend not finishing it, and I probably won't start a new story until this series is finished.

Have a good week, all!


	3. Three

**A/N: **Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited and put this story on their alerts! You all made me really happy :D Anonymous review replies are, unoriginally, at the end of the chapter.

Hope you all enjoy!

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**Three**

_Ila hostia. _

I turned my head to stare out the window, my mind pounding along at a hundred miles a minute.

_She must be crazy, hallucinating_. Or there must have suddenly been someone or something, some animal at her window that she was irked by. There must be something…

There was nothing. Nothing on the porch roof. Nothing to be seen but the superb landscape of the bay of Carmel and the distant blue Pacific.

I moved my eyes back to her face, bathed in the sunlight streaming in, to her eyes, which were unmistakeably locked on mine, dimly aware that my ears were ringing.

She raised an eyebrow.

Somewhere around the supreme physical and mental shock – it is a little difficult to describe the magnitude, but it was like being suddenly dunked underwater – I remembered that she was waiting for an answer. Normally, I have better manners, but I hope the fact that there was a distinct clamor in my head and ears, induced by this person seeing me instead of through me, excused my rudeness. Instead of answering the lady's question, I opened my mouth and ended up exhaling, "_Nombre_ _de Dios._"

The girl, 'Suze', sighed, rolling her eyes and moving forward to her dressing table. "It's no use calling on your higher power," she stated, putting any doubts I had had about the fact that it was me she was addressing at rest. I was breathing very fast. She was utterly at ease. Grabbing the chair from the table, she swung it around, sitting astride the delicate pink material as if it were a horse, all the while decidedly looking at me with those eyes, as she went on, "In case you haven't noticed, He isn't paying a whole lot of attention to you. Otherwise, He wouldn't have left you here to fester for – " she looked over my clothes, which were the ones I had been wearing the night of Diego and Maria's attack. "What is it, a hundred and fifty years? Has it really been that long since you croaked?"

I continued to stare at her. She could see me. She could see me, and judging by her expression, she was growing impatient. I shook myself.

There was literally nothing I could think of to say, however. I was aware that I was blinking rather thickly, so I settled instead for the most basic question. "What is…croaked?" I croaked. Even the sound of my voice startled me.

"Kicked the bucket," answered the miraculous young woman. "Checked out. Popped off. Bit the dust. _Died,_" she emphasized, her arms crossed over the backrest.

"Oh." That I understood, thank god. "Died." She could see me, and she knew I had died. She knew I was a ghost. Well, obviously. And she was not scared. I shook my head, clearing it.

"I don't understand how it is that you can see me," I stated, unnecessarily. Her impatience showed that she had clearly dealt with similar reactions before, but I said it anyway as my mind adjusted...and as it did, a strange thought about why I was still here began to form. "All these years, no one has ever – "

As expected, she interrupted me. I was more ready for her anger now, because that was certainly where she was heading, although I was far from comprehending why. But then, I was far from comprehending a lot of things at the moment, so that was all right. "Yeah. Well, listen, the times, you know, they are a' changin'. So what's your glitch?"

She looked at me, and I looked back, noticing the pink flush on her cheeks, enhancing her healthy glow of a complexion. Abruptly, everything I had heard earlier about her slid into place.

She could see ghosts. She could see ghosts where every other person certainly could not. I felt my mind return to normalcy as I analyzed the situation.

Here she was, this young, beautiful woman, clearly intelligent, with a caring personality (from what I had seen), and she had been seeing ghosts, probably her whole life, interrupting how it would have gone without the surprising ability. While I had never met anyone alive who could see me (and I had tried), I had met plenty of my fellow dead. They were not always pleasant, to understate it, and she had been dealing with them alone. I felt a wave of sympathy.

"Glitch?" I asked for clarification (where did all these bizarre words come from, anyway? I would need to start reading more current literature, maybe watching more motion pictures, I mentally noted), resuming my earlier comfortable position on the window seat in an attempt to disperse some of the tension in the room.

It did not work, however. Her eyes were still on my clothes when she mumbled, "Yeah." Then they snapped up again, narrowing. "Glitch. Problem. Why are you still here?"

Poor girl. She must have dealt with some terrible people.

Before moving on to ponder in what sense she meant that question – why I still existed here, or why I was still in the room (that was easy, she hadn't asked me to leave) – I chose to look that query, hoping that mode of inquiry might make her less irritable. "_Why haven't you gone to the other side?" _Ah well.

I shook my head. "I don't know what you mean." I did, a little, but I wanted her to explain nonetheless.

"What do you mean, you don't know what I mean?" she questioned, batting her hair away from her eyes. "You're _dead._" _Well, obviously. "_You don't belong here. You're supposed to be doing whatever it is that happens to people after they're dead. Rejoicing in heaven, or burning in hell," (I doubted that), "or being reincarnated, or ascending another plane of consciousness or whatever. You're not supposed to be just…well, just _hanging around,_" she finished heatedly.

How to answer that? I had restlessly pondered myself, over and over and then some more, why I still _hung around._ I had been unhappy about my death, yes, but not so much that I would descend to the level of my murderers. Not out of belief in 'fate' or 'it was my destiny to be murdered' or any such thing. My belief in fate then was very slim. But I did believe in a moral scale, and one simply did not do wrong when wronged, unless in self-defence. (And I had been doing an excellent job defending myself against Diego, I would have succeeded had Miss Maria Teresa not appeared). But when I had died, and the deed could not be undone, there was no question of killing them in self-defence, although I sorely wanted to. I did follow them and make sure that anything unjust they or their children tried to do after that failed. No black-marketing, no illegal or immoral acts, no stealing or manipulating, nothing underhanded. Ever. That's also why their fortune, their name, their clan failed, although they would have failed eventually anyway. But when even Maria passed away, old but unhappy (they had never been happy after my death), and I continued to exist as a ghost, I knew there was something else.

As I watched this exasperated girl, I wondered if she hadn't answered her own question in her anger. Could it be?

After all, no one should be as distressed as she, and on a lesser level, her mother were, and had certainly been before. I inferred a theory from the circumstances.

But considering her obvious anger, I doubted she would be very receptive to my confused thoughts on the matter. She looked so much like an irate cat, it was a little funny. Like she expected me to just go if she hissed at me. I would go, just not yet. And not for ever, certainly.

"And what if I happen to like just _hanging around_?" I asked her innocently, dodging her question.

She threw me a suspicious glare, evidently not amused. When I blinked at her, still innocent, she seemed to realize I was teasing her and got up quickly, swinging one long leg over the back. "Look. You can do all the hanging around you want, _amigo_." I had to suppress a grin at the use of the word through that husky-yet-sweet voice. What a day. "Slack away. I don't really care. But you can't do it here."

"Jesse," I said.

"What?"

"You called me amigo," I explained, in what my sister Brigida often called my 'affable' voice. "I thought you might like to know I have a name. It's Jesse." Well, Hector, actually, but I never was very fond of that name.

She looked startled, affirming my suspicion she did not meet many friendly…spirits, and then nodded. "Right. That figures. Well, fine. Jesse, then. You can't stay here, Jesse." _Santo cielo_, there was no distracting her. If she thought I was just going to leave now, though, she was much mistaken.

"And you?" I asked, smiling. Her anger was strangely endearing, coming from someone so small. It helped that I knew it was unwarranted.

Those green eyes scanned my face for a moment, before she asked shortly, "And me what?" I knew she was being rude on purpose, and I persisted as politely as I could.

"What is your name?"

"Look," she bit out again, her vexation making her eyes glitter. "Just tell me what you want, and get out. I'm hot, and I want to change clothes. I don't have time for – "

"That woman – your mother – called you Suzie," I spoke over her. I was not about to be distracted either. I felt sorry about her not being able to change, but she needed to know I meant no harm like others of my kind clearly had. "Short for Susan?"

"Susannah," she said immediately. "As in, 'Don't you cry for me.'"

_Susannah. _I gazed at the astounding, angry girl. It fit. She was such a Susannah. "I know the song."

Susannah arched an eyebrow. "Yeah. It was probably in the top forty the year you were born, huh?"

She was trying to mock my…age, for lack of a better word, and it just made me smile more. _Not to be diverted._ "So this is your room now, is it, Susannah?"

"Yeah," she replied with renewed heat, as she nodded her agreement, coming back to her original thread. "Yeah, this is my room now. So you're going to have to clear out."

"_I'm _going to have to clear out?" Here it went. "This has been my home for a century and a half. Why do _I _have to leave it?"

"Because." She looked furious, as I had expected. "This is _my _room. I'm not sharing it with some dead cowboy."

_That_ I had not expected.

Cowboy? _Vaquero_? Was she serious? I found myself on my feet, glaring down at her. She may have had astonishing powers, but that did not give her the right to say something that insulting.

"I am _not_ a cowboy," I told her, ignoring the incorrectness of the present tense. Did she know she had just insulted my background, honor and family, however ancient, all in one go? Suddenly, she was not all that endearing. I thought of my industrious, caring, remarkable family, our acres and acres of land and how hard my father and I had worked at maintaining them, how hard my grandfathers had worked, the respect that the De Silva name commanded, how difficult it had been for them after I had passed away. Did she really not know that she had suggested my family was like Felix Diego's, the vermin that had so underhandedly taken my life? "_Maldita vaqueros," _I muttered under my breath, pushing some of my own anger into the surrounding environment so I could talk clearly. The mirror on the wall began to rattle. I felt its vibration in my mind.

Susannah, noticing this, paled. "Whoa," she said, turning back to me, holding up her hands in a gesture that I supposed to be a mix of surrender and pacification. "Down. Down, boy."

"My family," I said, gesturing with my finger for her to put her hands down, "worked like slaves to make something of themselves in this country, but never, never as a _vaquero _– "

"Hey," she said indignantly. I was ready to talk over her again when she did it.

She reached out and wrapped her soft hand around my finger, yanking on it so that I was pulled toward her. It was easy for her to pull me because the moment she had made contact with me, the ringing in my ears had returned. Stronger than before. Susannah, however did not notice this as she hissed, "Stop with the mirror already. And stop shoving your finger in my face. Do it again, and I'll break it."

She let go of my hand, and looked at the mirror. It had stopped shaking, because as the semblance of blood drained from my face, so did the anger and energy I had been pushing into the air.

I thought that digit would never stop tingling, as if she really had broken it.

Her touch had been warm. It was no different than touch I had experienced back when I was alive, but the last time I had done so was a century and a half ago, and that had been when hands were around my neck.

Granted, this time had not been particularly gentle, but that only made the awareness more concrete. It was like falling after a long, long distance into water, kind of like I had been weightless all these years, and gotten used to it, only to hit the water with a thud and find I was there after all, as much as she was.

Susannah noticed this, seemed to soften a bit, but plunged on in my silence, speaking more calmly but firmly. "Now, look, Jesse. This is my room, understand? You can't stay here. You've either got to let me help you get to where you're supposed to go, or you're going to have to find some other house to haunt. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is."

I gazed at her (I was doing an awful lot of staring today), sensory memories from my life rushing back – playing horse for my sisters, patting the ranch hands on the back after a long day's work, dancing with women of the community at fiestas – along with all the years after it ended. There had always been books and films about people, mystics, witches, and so on who could talk to the dead. I had searched for proof of the stories. Traveled far and wide. Encountered fraud after fraud, and dismissed it all as fanciful, assuming that the most the living could interact with us was through marginal sensations.

And then this individual had come along and proven all my assumptions wrong in one short-tempered blaze. All those stories had had at least a grain or more of truth.

"Who _are _you?"I asked her earnestly. "What kind of…" I wondered what term applied to her powers. Witch? Mystic? Medium? No, they were all rude, and presumptuous, "girl," I settled for weakly, "are you?"

She must have either detected what I was about to say or filled in the blank with something worse, because she inhaled sharply, her chest rising, and drew herself up to her full height. When she spoke, it was the most irascible she had been all this time. "I'll tell you what kind of girl I'm not. I am _not_ the kind of girl who's looking to share her room with a member of the opposite sex. Understand me?" she glared daggers up at me. "So either you move out, or I force you out. It's entirely up to you. I'll give you some time to think about it. But when I get back here, Jesse, I want you gone."

Then she turned on her heel, her hair whipping me, and stormed out of the room.

…

"_Caramba,_" I muttered, moving a hand through my hair. If I had been alive, I would have probably needed to sit down.

As it was, however, I was not, so I closed my eyes and dematerialized instead.

* * *

**Hadley - **Thank YOU! I hope you like this one as much as the last one. Thank you so much for the kind review. Love to you!

Summer's almost over. Sigh.


	4. Four

**A/N: **Finally up! I am SO very sorry for the extreme lateness of this chapter, and so very thankful to my wonderfully patient readers for being absolute angels, and so, so, so very thankful to the reviewers. Every time one of you made my day with a review, I would die of guilt, and somehow, in some winding, twisting fashion, they led me to finally getting done with this.

I actually planned on doing review replies before writing this, but then I realized they were taking too long out of the time I could spare, and whenever I've been on the other end, I've really just preferred that the author write and put up the story already. So although I haven't done any individual replies, thank you all so much. Every single feedback means the world to me. Same to the alerters, and the favorite-rs. 3

Finally, updates, and I promise you this, will be much more regular from here on out - once every 10-14 days, probably, now that I've settled in to the groove of this semester. :D

Enjoy (hopefully...it's all internal monologue, but I'm praying it'll be interesting :P).

* * *

**Four**

When I opened them, I was smiling. An answer being delivered – more like barging in, yelling a bit and then storming out – after a century and a half of waiting could do that to you.

I sat down, noting the strong breeze pulling at the leaves of the cypresses next to me. I hadn't gone far at all, just to the top of a little hill nearby, behind where a barn used to be. It rose to a height of a few meters more than the roof of the house, allowing a clear view past it, across the hills and valley below.

I was fond of the place. It wasn't particularly scenic - the view from the window of the room I'd just left was much better; but it was interesting. I'd come here to think after taking my horse into the barn that night, sitting there and letting the wind tug at me a bit, and I'd come often after I'd left my body behind, six feet under (less actually, that lazy _híbrido_ hadn't gone that deep).

It was a good spot, I thought, as the breeze rushed noisily around me. It was ideal to analyze, evaluate, and reflect – even way back when all you could see were people bringing back horses from the day's trade, deceptively simple sights. It was an idiot who thought that a true man was about action all the time, even in so-called simpler times. It was not only good, but also necessary, to take at least a few minutes out of a busy life to just sit and think things though, or to just let your mind be.

In death, it was particularly necessary.

See, experiences don't impact you in quite the same way when you're a ghost. They do not tie to your sensations, to your body, because obviously, there is none. If I had _lived_ the 150 years I'd existed, I would be very different – an ancient, wise soul, dripping with…wisdom, with limited mental energy or zest for the events around me. Hell, if I had lived even 10 more years and then died, I would be a very different soul from what I was now. But because I was bodiless, the years and events became something like an encyclopedia in my head to consult for better ways of dealing with situations. My first reaction to everything was still a 20-year-old's, what it would have been had I been in that situation on that last day. That was why thinking and reflecting was even more important, it was needed to consolidate whatever happened in my mind.

Today, though, none of it was needed.

I could almost feel the tug of the air, and wondered if it had anything to do with Susannah's touch. I traced circles in the bristly grass with the hand she'd grabbed, trying to feel the powdery texture of the soil underneath.

I knew without a doubt that she was the answer, somehow. I just did not know how. I scooped up some of the soil, using mental exertion to make it act how it would in a solid hand, then let it fall back down. What was I supposed to do here, exactly? Was my purpose, the reason for my continued existence, really solving a familial and individual conflict?

I winced at how trivial that sounded, balancing an elbow on a knee and watching the headlights below wind about. Helping a troubled young woman and her family come to terms with the extraneous situation these powers put them all in. Counselor and bodyguard.

_Si_, it sounded trivial, but what else was there? I couldn't come up with any kind of other conceivable scenario. This had to be it.

A little frustrated, I cast my attention back to the house, opening up a mental sense and feeling the pulse around it.

Five males, four humans and an animal…five relaxed minds. Two females, an anxious one...and the new one. I inhaled sharply when I came to the last.

Susannah. The sheer amount of anxiety, nervous energy and above all, despair radiating from her - it was the store of years. I was sure I'd never felt like this, to this extent.

It was definitely worth it. No one should have to live with this, simple as that. I let the probe drop.

Besides, I reasoned, if this is how it had come to be, there had to be a scheme somewhere. Easy as it was to see my case as gloriously unfair, I'd seen enough to know that what people called 'unfairness' was only their perception of what was really a flawless scheme, a perfect jigsaw puzzle, from a very flawed eye. Maybe they had cataracts.

I swallowed as I realized another implication of all this. If I was here to protect them, make their lives better…make _her_ life easier…then when her life ended, so would my existence.

I shook my head, clasped my hands behind my neck and then lay down, staring up at the smoky sky. The end would be here soon. Well, not soon, if I was to do anything about it, but it was in sight. I was not ready to begin pondering the meaning of _that_. I put the thought away, along with all nagging doubts about the conclusion I'd made about my role in her life, closed my eyes, trying to feel the springiness of the grass under my back. Gradually, I cast out the mental tendrils again, picking out the nervous ball that was Miss Simon easily.

As I listened, I realized nervousness wasn't all there was. Her vibration, while clamorous in its unease, needed only one probe to reveal overwhelming undercurrents of calm and determination, love and concern…positivity. I laughed, remembering how she'd acted earlier, and my voice bounced off the tree trunks back to me – all imaginary, of course, but stronger than I ever remembered. I'd been right, and I didn't need this sense to know it. She wasn't fooling me. Sarcasm did not hide the fact that she was incapable of sustained repulsion, or being the demon she seemed to want to make everyone think she was. I tried to think of her talking to some of the men who'd lived here even seventy years ago, and laughed even harder.

Exhaling, I sat up, as ready as I would ever be to face my charge. I was about to turn the sense off when I felt a tug.

I turned my head around, much like a dog who'd picked up a scent. In a way, I had. Whatever it was, it came from downhill, from the valley, a strong, pulsing something.

With mounting unease, I remembered the blast of mad hatred that had exploded into what I liked to call the 'tenorsphere' – the tenor of vibrations from all entities, living, dead, human, animal, in the area – around the New Year. It had been so powerful, I'd shut off that sense after a day to get some peace.

As I felt around now, I realized it hadn't gone yet, as I'd assumed. I narrowed my eyes, latching on to one tendril of the hate, the rage, shuddering at its feel and followed it like a fishing line down the slopes. My eyes followed the invisible trajectory, finally landing on the red dome of the Mission. My mouth fell open. The school. The school Mr. Ackerman's sons went to, and Susannah would be joining on Monday.

"_Nombre de Dios," _I muttered, my eyes fixed on the dome. The hatred hadn't gone anywhere. It was packed, like a nucleus in one, mobile spot, that radiated it so strongly, it was almost a visible thing.

That girl, for it was a female spirit – a girl who's died around New Year's, was down there, haunting the Mission. The malice she was giving off was like a reeking gas, so heavy you could breathe it. Unrestrained, wild, volatile…young. New. She did not have control. _Gracias a Dios._

I breathed easier, and then shook my head disbelievingly. The doubts about my theory – Personal Bodyguard Theory, I thought I'd call it, became less nagging. It looked like my work would start very, very soon. I began to run a deeper scope, probing under the blanket of negativity to see what I would find, reprimanding myself for not doing this earlier. I had decided not to meddle in subjective matters, yes, but this much hostility? Something had clearly been very wrong. I should have gone down and studied her autopsy, and I made a mental note to do that tomorrow. Then I caught on to another mind's wavelength, and just listened.

Hours later, I got to my feet, still staring down at the mission, weighing the options. It didn't look like I could do anything more than what the calm, tranquil, joyous mind I felt had been attempting to do. He was part of the church, I was quite sure. I couldn't do much better. Susannah _definitely _couldn't. Just thinking about the clash between her and this evil made me blanch. I couldn't stop her from going to the school, certainly. The only thing to do was study the background, and then be there when she went to school, masking my presence so she wouldn't know.

Concluding that, I dusted my hands out of habit, shook my head when I realized that I had (I gave a new meaning to _old habits die hard_) then closed my eyes, feeling the pull that had begun jerking at me for a while now. It must have been after midnight, starting a new 12-hour period, and now was as good a time as ever. Probably the best, actually, considering that Susannah would probably be asleep. I could wait out the hour, without her having to know – there would be plenty of time to explain later.

Carefully visualizing the house, I directed the materialization so that I appeared on the roof of the porch, right outside her/my/our room. I paused, listening – in every sense of that word. Quiet. She hadn't heard, or detected. I was quite sure she was falling asleep, and a glance through the window confirmed that.

Moonlight was falling in stripes across her bed, illuminating the shining chestnut of her hair, scattered across the pillow. Her face was relaxed, her mouth slightly open. Suddenly realizing I'd done more than glance, I looked away quickly, pulling at my own hair again. I sat down with my back to the wall of the house, out of sight, to wait out the hour.

The stars had begun to show more as the smoke from the cars cleared, and the moon had grown a little brighter. Looking up from this height, you couldn't see much besides tree, hill and sky; listening at this hour, you couldn't hear much besides the cicadas and the rustle of the distant ocean, the _mar_. No modern building or roads or lights met the eye, no blaring horns or sounds of television met the ears.

Looking up at this hour, you could almost imagine that when you looked down, it would be wagon-tacks that lined the hills beside lower, more elegant buildings, lit only by candles. If you knew what it sounded like, you could recall the sounds of a real fiesta, and play it in your head, a 'soundtrack', I think was the word, for the night.

I heard a shift behind me, a rustling of sheets and a shift of springs, a small sigh, and I smiled again. One song in particular, came to mind, and despite the knowledge that I'd first heard and sang it years ago, the people I'd sang it with had died long since, the fact that the reason I was still here was going to meet a very great danger that I was still wondering just how to avert, despite the fact that she appeared to despise me and would probably be perfectly happy to never see me again, I was grinning. Because I was still here. I had a role to play just as much as anything that was created by whatever had created the stars I was looking at, and I knew it. The song reached a crescendo in my head, and I began to sing the chorus aloud, half wanting her to hear.

"_Oh, Susannah, now don't you cry for me, 'cause I come from Alabama with this banjo on my knee."_


	5. Five

**A/N: **As promised! I'm rather nervous about this chapter, and it was a lot of work, so reviews and feedback would be much appreciated. Happy October!

Also, Jesse's powers are way fun to write. :D

* * *

**Five**

As soon as the requisite hour was up, I made a trip down to the morgue adjoining the Carmel Hospital.

Disturbing, I am aware. But necessary, too. Information is crucial for dealing with any situation, and this was the place to start. Glad to bypass all the analysis going on where all the cadavers were (I may have been fascinated by medicine, but there was nothing pleasant about dead bodies when you did not have a particular reason to be studying them), I made my way instead to the fortunately empty record room.

Finding the rough ledger maintained by the staff easily, I riffled through the pages, keeping an ear out for anyone who might approach the room and see evidence of 'haunting'. What fun that would be.

_New Year's Eve…New Year's Eve…female…any connection to the Mission…_

There were three entries for that night, two accidents and a suicide. This took me by surprise – with that amount of hatred, I had been sure some violent murder had been involved. The entries gave me nothing more than that, just age, sex and causes. I cast a glance at the locked door and then sat down in the chair in front of the computer, pressing the 'power' button and watching the screen start up. This was bound to be interesting, this bout of detective work about as fun as it would get before we actually encountered the girl or woman.

Entering each of the names in the database, I found the profiles of my fellow deceased easily. I frowned as they came up. None of the two accidents had anything to do with the Mission – one was a tourist and the other a lady in her 20's, who lived in the valley and worked in a neighboring town. And that left…

I stared between Ms. Chambers' profile and the word 'suicide' in the ledger. Heather Chambers had been a student at Susannah's new school, she'd been Susannah's age…and she had apparently shot herself. And now she was haunting the Mission with an insane rage.

I tried to suppress the first thought that ran through my head, trying to keep an open mind and remember that I knew nothing about her circumstances, but it floated through anyway – _what an idiot. _Who did that? Take your own life, put yourself out of your misery, and then instead of moving on, 'hang around'?

I shook my head, turning the computer off (now that I knew as much as I would know without actually going to meet the girl, and who knew whether I'd be able to hide my presence from her) and leaving the room, going instead to pay a visit to the ICU at the hospital, now that I was here. Call me morbid, if you want, for being a ghost and wanting to 'hang around' this place – but you would be wrong. The patient I had been observing earlier was awake, his ECG showed a healthy heart rate and he was laughing, surrounded by happy family. I smiled as I read his reports – full recovery. _Dios, _the wonders the human mind wrought.

As engaged as I was in this and other cases, however, something was different. I did not realize what was happening then. I did not realize it until much, much later, actually, until it had already happened and there was nothing to be done. I did not realize it when my attention deviated and my eyes seemed to be checking the clock of their own accord, waiting for the morning to come. I did not realize it when I was less absorbed by the graphs and studies and more by the interactions of the families and couples I saw. I did not even realize it when the words '_you're going to have to clear out_' randomly drifted across my thoughts, making me chuckle. I just put the last one down to the fact that she had no idea that I was going to be around, watching, picking up everything I could that would help me help her – hidden for now, until it was necessary not to be. I thought the only reason I was looking forward to it so much was just the thrill of feeling part of something. And while that was definitely part of the reason, it was not all there was. It was not even the major part.

But I would not find that one out until much, much later.

* * *

The moment I saw the sun had been up for a while, I masked my presence (I was fairly sure she did not know of this power, because she would have been more vehement if she did) and materialized back eagerly, (come to think of it, I _really _do not know how I did not see what was happening right then), in time to see a slender figure rush out of the room, chestnut hair flying. Wondering what on earth happened, I followed quickly, pursuing the sound of voices.

"…and it's freezing cold, which is why I woke up, and there's all this fog outside! I think it's a tropical storm, Doc! What should we do?"

I stopped at the youngest brother – David's – room, amused. The look on his face was a much sleepier version of what mine probably was, as he sat up to look at Susannah, who was standing among his piles of notes, twisting her hands together.

"Suze, calm down. It's not a storm – storms involve strong winds and usually some form of heavy precipitation," he said good-naturedly, albeit groggily, "this happens every morning here – morning fog is actually typical in the Northwest, and while storms may batter the Pacific islands, they never do so on the American coast. In fact, Magellan named it the _pacifico _– which is Spanish for passive – " (I grinned again. Susannah's face was slowly turning pink as she listened to David's sleepy encyclopedia impression), "because of it's relative lack of storms. Don't worry, all the fog will burn off by lunchtime, and it'll be as hot as yesterday," he concluded, smiling widely at the quite red girl now, who'd folded her arms and was now grazing the back of her neck with one hand embarrassedly, as she mumbled, "Oh. Okay then. Er, thanks. Sorry I woke you up, Do – David."

He waved it off, "No worries! Don't be embarrassed, you can't know everything there is to know about a place you've never lived in before. I think you actually know more than the average newcomer would, Suze." Susannah smiled down at the little boy, and unseen by them both, so did I. There was a born gentleman, if ever there was one. He had my respect.

"Thank you, Doc," Susannah said warmly, turning to leave. "Say, do you wake up every morning to close the windows?"

"No, I just sleep with them closed."

"Oh," she said, frowning, as she neared the door and me. I stepped away, out of habit of courtesy more than anything. She could not collide with me when I was like this. "Oh well. Have a good nap then, David. It's a nice room you have here," she gestured vaguely at the socks and papers.

It was David's turn to turn pink, which he did with alacrity as he muttered his thanks. Susannah gave him a final smile before she closed the door and moved past me down the hallway, a flowery smell drifting behind her.

I hesitated briefly, wondering if I should follow. It was one thing to watch her hidden when she was interacting with other people, and completely another to watch her when she was alone. That would be like shadowing her in a disturbing way (I was sure there was a word for that somewhere, and not a good one either). No matter how much it would tell me – like this interaction had told me she hated being in a position where it became apparent she was not on top of everything – it would still have a strange, creeping-up-on-her feel_ (__iPor el amor de dió__s_, I wanted to be along the lines of the US Secret Service, not Mark David Chapman!)

But what if I unmasked my presence? The idea was strangely tempting.

I shook myself, repeating the words "_I want you gone," _to snap out of the flowery scent that was clearly addling my brain, and moved instead to the empty living room, borrowing an Ayn Rand novel to read and only moving upstairs when Mrs. Ackerman went into the room to help Susannah unpack.

The day would have gone on like that, me following whenever there were other people around, gathering information, making a mental inventory (it looked like I would have to do some significant hidden intervening come Monday), enjoying the change, had what happened that afternoon not thrown off my plans.

I was sitting on the window seat, reading. The room was empty. Susannah was in her bathroom, where I promised myself I would never go. One of the rules that helped me feel like I was not just some kind of scoundrel – besides, I still had 20 minutes to go before I could escape the pull of the room. I would sense easily if she were about to enter the room in a state of undress, and dematerialize before I saw anything.

Which was how when the door opened and I looked up, my mouth fell open and I almost dropped the energy concealing me as I felt my face burn.

And my face hadn't burned in years, live or dead.

I thought I had definitely slipped up on the 'privacy sense' before she went outside and returned with a lotion bottle in a few seconds, and I remembered that they were going to the beach. And that what she was wearing was simply a bathing suit and an undone cover-up, not a bathrobe and…undergarments.

Wishing I could take the book out from under the cushions to have something to focus on, I settled instead for staring at the swirls on the ceiling, mentally repeating to myself: _it is nothing…you have seen more revealing clothes…you have seen them evolve…it is normal…you have seen taller, leaner bodies…_

Mercifully, Susannah was done with her make-up and packing her bag in less than 10 minutes, and was out the door, the flowery smell permeating the whole room. As soon as she was gone, I pulled the book back out, fervently wishing I could leave.

My eyes might as well have been trying to burn a hole through the book for all the moving they did.

I told myself I was old-fashioned. I actually told myself that I was out-of-date, and that was all there was – that I was so used to hoop skirts and layers and layers of elegant clothing that made women look big or wide, that these outlandish outfits just 'insulted my sensibilities' (funny, because my sensibilities, or anything else for that matter, did not feel remotely insulted). I was just not used to seeing so much of a woman's body, that was all (I firmly told the voice that countered that I spent plenty of time down at the beach to shut up). It had nothing to do with how Miss Simon looked with her hair falling in damp waves down her shoulders, her skin glowing. I would be professional about this. I would not think in anything but a professional manner of my charge, no matter how much she may have a body with curves in all the right places…

"_Maldita,"_ I groaned, smacking my forehead down on to the knee of the leg I had put up. I was not a stranger to noticing beauty, by any means. I was 20, after all. It had been one of the determinants, however minor, when I agreed to marrying Maria, and look where _that _got me.

But this…this was worse. She did not look like Maria by any means, but somehow, she looked better.

I smacked myself upside the head, turned the page and plunged on with the reading, silencing the side that would not stop mentally exclaiming in wonder, with a firm _it's not significant, this is some phantom hormonal reaction, there are much lovelier women in the world and you are only going to cause difficulties._

I would not follow them to the beach.

* * *

On Monday morning, I returned to the house, the first time I would see Susannah since yesterday's encounter, calming the gnawing in my stomach with a deep breath.

As it turned out, I needn't have worried about any more pseudo-hormonal reactions. She was asleep, mercifully fully clothed and covered with a thin blanket, although she was shivering rather forcefully. I frowned, concerned, and then remembered yesterday morning. I turned and pulled the windows shut, and watched as she calmed, stretching slightly and sighing. Deciding this was becoming trailing-prey-kind-of-territory, I moved instead to the porch roof. Not really in the mood to read, I amused myself with testing my kinetic powers on the leaves, floating them around and defying gravity, using my supernatural hearing to listen to the early news on a radio somewhere in the area.

Soon enough, the family rose, the boys left in their car while Susannah, clad completely (_Gracias a Dios) _and gracefully in a lot of black (although she would've looked beautiful in anything, really…_Shut up!_), left with Mrs. Ackerman for the Junipero Serra Catholic Academy – the Mission school.

I watched them out, and then stood up, closing my eyes and steeling the wards that veiled me. It was a matter of holding the vibrations caused by my presence in a narrow frame, not allowing them to drift into the surrounding environment. This made handling and manipulating objects more difficult, but it was well worth it.

Taking a deep breath, I dematerialized down to the corridors of the Mission.

The effect was instantaneous. The air around me was throbbing with energy fueled by the girl's hatred, and I winced as I held on to the barriers.

_Yes!_ It worked, she didn't detect me. Although I have to say, she was not trying to, and I think even if I had not had the barriers around, she would not have noticed because she was so preoccupied.

Remembering the picture that had come up with her profile, I marveled again at how one small, fair-haired girl, Susannah's age, Josefina's age, could hold so much spite. But it was not that surprising really…it was the foolish who caused the most damage, and it was certain this one was more than a little foolish.

I looked around at the sound of footsteps. Susannah and her mother had arrived, and were walking down the breezeway to what looked like the Principal's office, Susannah walking slightly behind her mother and looking around with a confused expression.

As I suddenly realized what must have been going through her head, a smile broke across my face. I remembered – there was another of her kind here.

I was very excited for a moment, thinking I could drop the wards and talk to him, after Susannah had left, of course, (it would be so good to talk to someone new! Someone who could be a mentor!)…and then it hit me. _Susannah. _Living in the room I was tied to, my charge, in a way, and then my very embarrassing reaction yesterday.

Heat rose to my face again and I pushed a hand through my hair as I followed them into the administrative office, keeping the wards tight. No, I didn't think I could meet him of my own accord, without at least Susannah acting as intermediary, until I was sure I wouldn't react that way to her and her (_Maldita flores!_) scent and everything else; until that whole component was gone, and I could be sure my reactions, like my intentions, were 100% honorable. I sighed. It was ridiculous. It did not even have anything to do with me, just whatever memory of testosterone my stupid, 20-year old body had left on my spirit. For all their wonders, the human body and mind were very frustrating at times.

Shaking it off, I focused instead on what was going on, which was Susannah, staring up at the huge crucifix on the wall, her mouth slightly open. A boy sitting across from her, who looked about her age noticed this too, and said, "He's supposed to weep tears of blood if any girl ever graduates from here a virgin."

Inappropriate would be an understatement, but I couldn't help chuckling at that, much like Susannah, who burst out laughing, earning herself a disapproving stare from Mrs. Ackerman. The secretary, for that is whose room they were in, didn't even look up from her desk as she sighed, "Oh, Adam."

"It's true," he persisted, deadpan. "It happened last year. My sister. She's adopted."

Shaking my head, I watched amused as Susannah laughed again, and her mother reacted much like my own would have. Susannah caught her expression, seemed to remember yesterday's chiding while they were unpacking (apparently she'd thrown big things through windows. I was quite glad I was veiled, for her safety, not mine. If she tried to throw me through a window in that petulant rage she had worked up on the first day, she would probably end up hurting herself), and stopped laughing, not a moment too soon, because the principal's door opened and he walked into the room.

"Mrs. Ackerman, what a pleasure to see you again," said the principal, a very distinguished-looking priest. "And this must be Susannah Simon. Come in, won't you?" He stood aside, beckoning them into the room, and I entered after them, as he looked around and said dryly, "Oh, no, Mr. McTavish. Not on the first day of a brand-new semester?"

"What can I say? The broad hates me."

"Kindly do not refer to Sister Ernestine as a broad, Mr. McTavish. I will see to you in a moment, after I have spoken with these ladies."

I waited by the door as the three seated themselves, the priest behind a desk that held a nameplate telling his name was Father Dominic, looking around at all the awards on the walls.

"Well, Susannah, we're very happy to have you. How are you liking California so far?"

"I like it very much, Father," Susannah replied politely, in her typical confident tone. "Especially the ocean."

"That's very nice," the Father smiled warmly at her. Odds were high he was going to be the one with the powers. A quick mental probe confirmed that he was, indeed, the same mind I had sensed Saturday night. This was brilliant – he was exactly the kind of person Susannah would need. "I hope you will be very happy here at the Mission Academy, and go on to distinguish yourself in your time here. Now, you need never feel out of place – I know you are not Catholic, but you are welcome at Mass, and to go with the rest to church on the Holy Days of Obligation. You could stay behind in the classroom, if you so desire, the choice is entirely yours." (I was quite sure she would do the latter, judging by the grin on her face.)

After rounding up the welcome with a list of offenses that would result in expulsion – I noticed Mrs. Ackerman straighten with worry here, poor lady – and asking if they had questions, he rose. "Fine, then. I'll say goodbye to you, Mrs. Ackerman, and walk Susannah to her first class. All right, Susannah?"

I straightened up in anticipation. Susannah just raised her eyebrows, but nodded and got up. Mrs. Ackerman bid them goodbye, and they departed, Father Dominic calling behind him as he left the office, "Wait here a few minutes longer, Mr. McTavish, I will be back soon."

"No prob, _Padre_," McTavish answered, ogling Susannah when the father's back was turned. Suppressing a random desire to grab the top of his head and turn his eyes away from moving up and down Susannah's body, I left after them.

"…yes, these are all adobe buildings, very thick walls, meant for keeping the place warm in the winter and cold in the summer," the father was saying, strolling along behind Susannah. "Those benches are ideally placed to silently contemplate the beauty of this courtyard. And these doors and lockers are artfully built right into the adobe walls. Also, one of these lockers has been assigned to you, I have the number here…273. Do you want to put your coat away first? It's right outside the classroom, I think."

Susannah nodded her agreement, slowing her striding walk a little. I looked ahead, feeling rather than seeing what was coming. Susannah had a strong, assured aura of her own, and it was fast on a collision course with the other one.

"And how are you getting along with…Max, I think? The Ackermans' family dog?… Good , good…your stepfather keeps telling us to replace that beautiful Spanish timber in the breezeways, because apparently they're rotting due to the swallows that live here and their refuse…yes, well, I must say, as much as I respect his opinion, that he's much mistaken. They're harmless, innocent creatures, why would they wreck their own homes?"

I knew this was all a tactic, a façade of calm composedness, to keep her attention. I was sure he was as nervous, or if not nervous (he couldn't feel the other ghost's tenor, after all), as anticipating as I was, as I watched the numbers on the lockers scroll by. I halted as my eyes fell on the locker a few feet ahead of us, in front of which stood a figure.

Susannah halted too, as did Father Dominic behind her.

I winced.

Teenage girls can be frighteningly powerful forces, I have learned. It was a teenage girl who had been mostly responsible for my demise, after all. How many of the great classics involve teenagers as major plot points? Those who do not know any better or don't believe that are the ones who are led astray by their voices and their wiles, but anyone who could feel the collision that was happening in the tenorsphere right now would do more than wince.

Heather Chambers glared at Susannah, and then demanded, (anticlimactically, her voice was high-pitched and snooty) "What are _you_ looking at?" She slid her gaze to the priest. "_This _is who they let in to take my place? I am _so _sure."

Susannah whipped around, her mouth fully open and her green eyes very wide as she stared at the only figure she could see – the father. He was looking down at her analytically.

"Ah. I thought so."

* * *

**A/N again: **"California is a fine place to live - if you happen to be _a review." _

Brownies to the first person who can tell me what the original quote ^ is there. Love to you all!_  
_


	6. Six

**A/N: **I'm sorry! I know this is past due, and I honestly have no excuse. But I look at it this way: which one's preferable - a chapter that I'm reasonably okay with over a longer period of time, or a rotten chapter that I hate because I wrote it while feeling guilty about not getting all my other work done, but put up on time? That's how my head exempts itself from most of the guilt :P

As always, I hope you enjoy! I'm not entirely sure where the flashback came from, but it did, and it surprised me. The Jesse in my head, incidentally, is very pleased that I'm finally done. He's a lot more organized than I am.

* * *

**Six**

Susannah took a moment to absorb this new development, blinking rapidly and breathing quickly. Judging by the way she looked back and forth between the two figures, she had never met anyone who shared her gift. That fit, too. Like I mentioned (exclaimed, actually) before, I had not met anyone like her in a hundred and fifty silent years, not counting the time saved by my lack of physical constraints – traveling, making appointments, and such. It was still so strange to think that she, and the priest, could see and feel me. A day of hiding and having her unaware of me, just like the millions before her, only added to the buzzing, ear-ringing, thought that she would be aware as soon as I dropped the shield.

As for the priest, I had not had opportunity to register that I had found another person with the same ability within only a few hours of the first. The discovery of Heather Chambers' spirit had taken care of that. But it was still incredible – two people, in two days, on one piece of land. That could only mean there had to be more. I had an urge to begin my search for them again, but clearly, I did not know how to seek them out. The day that I could justifiably begin speaking to the priest, a day I was already looking forward to, I would discuss this with him. Ghosts, those who saw them, what it meant and what should be done. He would have some answers, I was sure. It was clever, the clean way he had chosen to see if Susannah was like he was.

It worked, too. Perfectly. She looked up at him and asked, her normally low voice high-pitched, "You can _see _her?"

"Yes," he said, in his tranquil way. His soothing manner only seemed to anger Miss Chambers, however. There was an upswing in the energy around her as she watched him gaze paternally down at Susannah. I stepped between them, inspecting the energy, looking for the best way to counteract anything she might do.

"I suspected when I first heard your mother speak about you – and your…_problems_ at your old school – that you might be one of us, Susannah." I smiled at the confirmation of my theory. "But I couldn't be sure, of course, so I didn't say anything. Although the name Simon, I'm sure you're aware, is from the Hebrew word meaning 'intent listener,'" immediately, the part of my brain that wasn't occupied with examining Heather Chambers' powers and listening to the conversation perked up at this. He was right, of course, but then, Dominic was just a Latin derivative for 'Lord', which was shared by many other names. "Which, as a fellow mediator, you of course would be…"

If only he knew. But mediator was a good word.

Susannah was still gaping, her eyes like dinner plates. "So _that's_ why there aren't any Indian spirits around here! _You _took care of them. Jeez, I was _wondering_ what happened to them all." Her voice had risen an octave by now. "I expected to find hundreds – "

The priest smiled. "Well, there weren't hundreds, exactly, but when I first arrived, there were quite a few," he said humbly. My already high regard for him grew. I had steered clear of those spirits, as they were especially violent towards Spaniards. It had to take an extraordinary individual to calm them down. "But it was nothing, really. I was only doing my duty, after all, making use of the heavenly gift I received from God."

This reverently uttered sentence earned a nose-wrinkling from Susannah. "Is _that _who's responsible for it?" I could not hold back a laugh. The priest, however, was unfazed, looking down at her with even more patience than before, as if she'd suddenly aged backwards. "But of course ours is a gift from God. Where else do you think it could come from?" Immediately, I started thinking about genetics, and then stopped, wheeling around to face Chambers, my eyes narrowing. Whatever forces she held within her, they were rising even further, into a crescendo.

"I don't know. I've always kind of wanted to have a word with the guy in charge, you know?" What a way to put it. "Because, given a choice, I'd much rather not have been blessed with this particular gift." And who could blame her, as wonderful as it was for me and most other spirits? It was unfair that someone so young, so fragile, should have been chosen for something such as this. I had no doubt that she had the emotional and mental strength to cope with it, but why should she need to, when she should have been focusing on enjoying her life like everyone else? Marta, Josefina and Mercedes, and Isabela too, had all been so carefree at her age. Brigida hadn't, because I had passed away a year before she turned 16, and it had taken her the longest time to become herself again after that, along with Josefina. But even she had not had a shadow such as this. The thought of any of my sisters, my _queridas_, having to encounter the violence of some of the Native American chiefs, or even Chambers was terrible.

But the priest, for all his being better equipped to cope with the situation, had clearly had a gentler life – none of this seemed to occur to him. "But why ever not, Susannah?"

"All it ever does is get me into trouble. Do you have any idea how many hours I've spent in psychiatrists' offices? My mom's convinced I'm a complete schizo," she answered, the tone in her voice making me frown. She was exaggerating, of course, as seemed to be the norm with her, but there was a note of seriousness there.

"Yes," the priest said, examining her and nodding intently, beginning to understand. "Yes, I could see how a miraculous gift like ours could be considered by a layperson as – well, unusual." I winced, wishing he would change his tactic…although it wasn't so much a tactic, just his holy nature. But even so. "Unusual?" Susannah exclaimed, proving my unstated point. I sighed. "Are you _kidding _me?"

"I suppose I have been rather sheltered here in the mission. It never occurred to met that it must be extremely difficult for those of you out in the, er, trenches, so to speak, with no real ecclesiastical support – " I doubted that was the major problem here, ecclesiastical support.

Susannah had latched on to another part of the sentence, however. Her answer was a surprised, "Those of us? You mean there's more than just you and me?"

"Well, I just assumed…surely there must be," he replied. Chambers was gearing up to say something. "We can't be the last of our kind. No, no, surely there are others."

"Excuse me." And there she went. "But would you mind telling me what's going on here? Who is this bitch?" I resisted the urge to use my own powers to fling her away. "Is she the one taking my place?"

"Hey!" Susannah fired back, returned to herself as she turned around to glare at the only ghost she could see. "Watch your mouth. This guy's a priest, you know."

I had a second to note that she was angrier on the priest's behalf than her own before Chambers drawled in a way that would have earned her a slap from any of the ladies I had known, "Uh, duh. I _know _he's a priest. He's only been trying to get rid of me all week."

Susannah raised her eyebrows at the father, who answered in an ashamed way (he did not need to be ashamed at all), "Well, you see, Heather's being a bit obstinate – "

"If you think that I'm going to just stand back and let you assign my locker to this bitch – " So that's where her irritation at Susannah came from – the locker and all it represented. Women.

That's when I noticed Susannah's right fist ball up, thumb inside as she said, "Call me a bitch one more time, missy, and I'll make sure you spend the rest of eternity _inside _this locker of yours." We were thinking along the same lines, then. I would have been worried, had I not seen how she held that fist. I debated stepping away and letting her do what it was disconcertingly obvious she would, and had clearly done before.

Chambers looked back, tilted her head and sneered, "Biii—itch," and it was over in a second.

'It' was Susannah moving faster than I had thought possible, her fist passing right through me, giving me exactly half a second to decide to add a tiny energy pulse to the blow, to knock the power back as well. The priest could only stare.

Ironically enough, Chambers went right into the locker she had been so upset about, and then gracelessly to the floor. For all her power, she had clearly never dealt with physical blows before, because she rose gingerly, tears in her eyes, turned tail and ran away.

"Huh," Susannah scoffed quietly. "_Chicken." _Then she blew on her fist, completely unfazed.

The father blinked, an eyebrow raised, at the dent in the locker, while I blinked at Susannah. So much for fragile. I meant it when I said 'tiny', almost all the power behind that punch had been hers. I scanned her slim frame, wondering how she could be built like the ladies I had known, but have the power of the best of our farm hands. Maybe it was a 'mediator' thing.

But less flippantly, I wondered at the necessity for her to know how to throw a punch like that, or have that power in the first place. I had known that from before, but seeing it actually happen…I resolved to ensure that she would never be forced to do any such thing again – well, maybe to people like Chambers, minus the powers. But never because of people trying to hurt her.

"So, what were you saying, Father?" she prompted him, pulling both him and me out of our respective reveries.

"Interesting mediation techniques they're teaching out east these days," he remarked sardonically, making me chuckle. I could not wait to be able to talk to him.

Susannah shrugged, her eyes playful. "Hey. Nobody calls me names and gets away with it. I don't care how tortured he was in his past life. Or hers."

"I think," he replied, regarding her carefully, "there are some things we need to discuss, you and I."

I did not doubt it. Nor was I in the dark about what he would say in those discussions. But while I was inclined to agree, in this case, compassion would not help Susannah with this ghost.

The door nearest them opened then, and a big man looked out curiously, evidently having heard the commotion. "Everything all right, Dom?" he asked the priest.

"Everything's fine, Carl. Just fine," the priest answered smoothly. He moved to place a hand on Susannah's shoulder and turn her to him, saying cheerily, "And look what I've brought you. Your newest pupil, Susannah Simon. Susannah, meet your homeroom teacher, Carl Walden."

Susannah held out her right hand and smiled up at Mr. Walden. Now that the ghost debacle was over, she was happy again, her smile going all the way to her eyes. She really was beautiful. "How do you do, Mr. Walden?"

"Just fine, Miss Simon. Just fine," her teacher answered, taking the proffered hand and shaking it, then moving to allow her to squeeze past him into the classroom beyond. I walked through the wall. "Nice to have you with us. Thanks, Dom, for bringing her over."

"Not a problem. We were just having a little difficulty with her locker. You probably heard it." I was amused at the ease with which the noble father was covering up what had happened. Maybe he was not as sheltered as he had claimed to be. "I'll have the custodian look into it. In the meantime, Susannah, I'll expect you back in my office at three, to, um, fill out the rest of those forms."

I noted Susannah's perfectly innocent smile as I moved to the back of the classroom, shaking my head at her performance. "Oh, no can do, Father. My ride leaves at three."

I could not see him, but he sounded displeased as he answered, "Then I'll send you a pass. Expect one around two."

"Okay," she answered in honeyed tones, raising a hand and doing that strange wave that some women do, where they sort of drum their fingers in the air. "Buh-bye."

Only I seemed to think this was amusing however. As I looked around from the windowsill I had chosen as a seat, I realized Susannah's new classmates were staring at her in something like awe.

She turned back and saw this, but probably did not identify that it was a positive silence that greeted her, because her face turned blank, and her eyes darted around nervously. As Mr. Walden put his hand on her shoulder and said, "This is Susannah Simon, class. She'll be joining us from today," I noticed her swallow discretely. Immediately, I was reminded of a day a long time ago.

"_Jesse!," a voice cried, from above the slope outside the barn._

'_In here!" I called back, not pausing from cleaning Uther's, my unfortunately named (just like me) horse's hoof. At least I had convinced everyone to call him Fudge. I still had to respond to Hector._

_There was a pattering of running footsteps, and then Brigida burst into the barn. She stopped, panting, looking around. I grinned at her and waved her over. She did not smile back, but took the path down the stables at a brisk walk, pausing to cluck softly at our horses and pat their noses. _

_Fudge whinnied happily when she reached us, and she hugged his neck, stroking his nose and watching me treat his hooves. "That looks like the shape of Sancha's nose," she commented, looking at the protruding underside of the limb._

_I laughed. Sancha was one of Brigida's new classmates – the two had never gotten along as children, due mainly to Sancha's manipulative nature than anything else. It was something that Brigida never fell for, but other girls did._

"_I take it you did not enjoy your first day?" I asked, watching her downcast expression. She had started going to the school, having turned 13 a month ago._

"_Not one bit," she answered, and left it at that._

"_It will get better, _querida_," I assured her, finally putting Fudge's hoof down, then moving my stool and box for his knee over to his hind legs. "I promise. The first day is hard always – there is a schedule to follow, the teacher is not __mama, and she also has other girls to consider…it will take getting used to, but once you do, just watch how you excel."_

"_I doubt it," she answered in a soft tone, exaggerating the vowels of her Spanish as she always did when upset, a contemplative frown on her face._

_I looked at her, putting the horse's hoof down again. She had not come here to sulk – Brigida never sulked – but it looked like she needed prompting to say what she was thinking._

"_What is the matter?" I asked her gently, moving the stool over a bit so I could see her, leaning forward to show her she had my full attention._

_She sighed, then looked me in the eye and answered seriously, "I want to study at home, Jesse. I am never going to belong there. I know it is becoming important for girls to study, but I can do it, and probably do it better, at home."_

"_But _querida…_"_

"_I do not care that it is wonderful that girls are going to school now! Jesse, please help me tell mama and papa that I do not want to go."_

"_What happened today?"_

"_No one spoke to me. Sancha had taken them all out for a picnic with her family last week, and they all listen to her and either ignore me or pester me."_

_I knew that was not all. "And…?" I asked._

"_And Jesse," she said, and tears filled her eyes. She held up the schoolbox she had brought with her. "They spoiled my drawings." She pulled out the little leather purse that held some of her favorite pieces, and opened it up to reveal paint splashed on her beautiful sketches, beginning to sob in earnest._

_I could feel my blood boiling. I wanted to barge straight down to the school and have a word with the headmistress, an old friend of the family's, right then. But my sister's need was greater, so I rose instead and pulled her into a tight hug. She buried her face in my stomach and cried for a few minutes, while I stroked her hair and tried to soothe her. Her art meant everything to Brigida – she was extremely good at it, and she liked to document whatever meant something to her through her drawings. Among the pictures had been a sketch of the highest peak in Salinas, portraits of the family, and beautiful landscapes she had done from real life._

_The crying began to subside, and I pulled out a handkerchief and gave it to her, kneeling down so I could be on her eye level. "I just never will go back there," she sobbed between hiccoughs, her eyes very red._

"_No, _querida, _you will," I said firmly. This startled her so much, she stopped hiccoughing and stared at me._

"_Why on earth should I go back? I'm not Marta, I do not need food for fuss and bother!" she exclaimed. _

_I rolled my eyes at the Marta comment (the oldest of my sisters had a flair for the dramatic, but not that badly), and said, "Because you need to show them that you will not be beaten by people as petty as them."_

"_He is right," a voice called down from the front of the barn, making us jump. Josefina had entered without our noticing. She made her way over to us, holding up the hem of her white skirt from the ground. She dropped it when she reached us, however, to put her arm about Brigida's shoulders, who looked up at her, comforted. "I came as soon as I could when I heard. It will be all right, dearest. I will speak to the girls of the other classes and they will make sure nothing of the sort ever happens again. Besides, they may have spoiled Pinnacle, but they did not get Luath," she tapped Brigida's nose, making her laugh, "did they?"_

_Brigida smiled. Luath was the prized one of her drawings. He was our old dog, who had passed away last year. She had captured him perfectly, paused in the middle of rolling around playfully on the grass, staring up at the viewer wide-eyed, his tongue flopping out on one side of his mouth. _

"_No," she said. That picture was kept safely with other valuable ones in Mama's room. "They did not." _

"_You see?" I told her, smiling. "Tomorrow we will go down to the school together. I will go with you, and I will drop you off. You are too intelligent and talented not to show it to the world." She was smiling back now, while Josefina was positively beaming. "And you will make more pieces like the ones they ruined, and better ones. And they will come to you of their own will – you are too good for Sancha to have a hold on them much longer."_

The next day, I had taken her down to the school, and watched as she looked about the huge classroom, her eyes darting around exactly as Susannah's were now. She had gulped, the only sign of fear her pride would allow her to show. Then she looked up, gave me a small smile, squeezed my hand once, and dropped it, walking into the room with her head held high.

As I watched Susannah now, it struck me. She was not my sister, and she was not thirteen, but she wasn't that different. She only acted as if she were. She still needed taking care of, and she had no one to give her the kind of care she needed, unlike my sister who had had her whole family. This was beyond just physical protection. In an instant, the uncomfortable gnawing that had been present in my stomach since yesterday disappeared. There was no way I would think of her that way again. And even if I did slip up, and found myself thinking that way, I would never act on it – her needs were too great.

I wondered why the teacher was making her stand there so long instead of asking her to sit down. It was a whole minute before he did so. Susannah looked at the two seats available, then out the window. Her eyes widened when she saw the sea. Immediately she moved towards the seat in the back, the one closest to the window.

No sooner had she sat down, however, than one of the girls in front laughed derisively and said in a carrying whisper, "God, sit by the freak, why don't you?", referring to the albino young lady in front of Susannah's seat.

Susannah and I both looked at her with raised eyebrows. So much for progress. Whoever she was, she was stupider than those girls in Brigida's class in 1848.

"Excuse me," Susannah asked her, politely and audibly. "Do you have Tourette's?"

I burst out laughing at that one and couldn't stop for a minute, especially when the girl looked back, blinking slowly, and asked, "What?", to which Susannah answered, "Tourette's Syndrome. It's a neurological disorder that causes people to say things they don't really mean. Do you have it?"

The girl seemed to realize she had erred, in a big way. "No," she muttered, turning red.

"Oh. So you were being purposefully rude."

"I wasn't calling _you _a freak," the girl answered, trying and failing miserably to get out of the fix.

"I'm aware of that," Susannah said coldly. "That's why I'm only going to break _one _of your fingers after school, instead of _all _of them."

Through my tears of laughter, I noticed several people's jaws drop. The entire class had stopped to watch the showdown, and now they were all whispering to each other, unable to hide their shock. Understandable, but they didn't stop even when the teacher tried to call them to order. The other girl had just turned back around instead of replying. Susannah sat back in her seat, apparently unconcerned, observing the girl in front of her, the one the other girl had called a freak.

Except when the teacher, losing patience, slammed the table for attention and assigned an essay on the battle of Bladensburg (which was also amusing, because I had had the same assignment all those years ago.) That made her look sheepish and apologetic.

No, she was definitely not the same as my sisters. Or anyone I had ever known.

I returned to analyzing Chambers' slippery tendrils of power, making sure I could prevent any serious harm when the time came. The rest of the class progressed uneventfully.

* * *

**A/N again: **If you liked, I would really appreciate feedback :) Even if you DIDN'T like, I would love feedback. If you feel too mean criticizing it, just do it anonymously, but believe me, negative feedback is better than none.

Other notes: I actually took a Myers-Briggs personality test as Jesse :P The results were very interesting. He's an INFJ. It said, among the many professions they excel at, INFJ's tend to be truly great doctors :D

And this one is completely off-topic, but how amazing was HP7, eh? I think it's my favorite so far, along with Prisoner of Azkaban.

Happy Thanksgiving!


	7. Seven

**Seven**

I waited, as I said, had now become my custom. And again, as I said, I did not have a problem with it. In fact, I was happy to do it. My only concern was what Susannah would think of it when she found out.

At the moment, she was calmly putting her notes away (she took good notes, I noticed), utterly unfazed by the ruckus she was the cause of. The class had split into little globules of people, and what each one thought of her was easy to tell. Even for someone who couldn't supernaturally pick up vibrations or hear the whispering going on. I suppose you would expect me to be bored of the 'drama' (I think that's the word) of these high-school scholars, but I never agreed with that view of the 'younger generation' – whichever century it was in – in the first place. Maybe it had to do with the fact that I never left that generation, but I think all those years of observing count for something. Yes, young adults make everything and every emotion bigger and grander than they would ten years down the line, but that doesn't mean that they're all to be clubbed into a collective personality. Any one who tries to do that has no sense of the greatness of human beings.

Which included, apparently, these people who were acting very herd-like at the moment. Susannah cast her eyes over the most hostile group, and with no change in expression, carried on until the girl in front of her turned around and demanded, "Am I supposed to be grateful to you, or something, for what you said to Debbie?"

Clearly sensitive.

Susannah didn't even look taken aback. She got up and said, "You aren't supposed to be anything, as far as I'm concerned."

_Dios. _I'm going to stop stating the obvious now – I can only say how characteristic her every action was so many times. I am confident you know by now that Susannah rebuffed people when she first them, and not because she was a bad or crude person. I don't know why – probably a defense mechanism. Maybe it was also the Brooklyn factor. I went to New York frequently – materialization was excellent sometimes – and I could see why living there could make her that way.

The girl, meanwhile, blocked her way. "But that's why you did it, right? Defended the albino? Because you felt sorry for me?"

Susannah was as calm as the girl was angry. Unable to move past her, she reached for her coat with deliberate slowness. "I did it because Debbie is a troll." (I couldn't help wishing I could keep a notebook to write down all these words and phrases in. _Troll. _It was like hearing someone be called a gnome.)

The girl was as amused as I was. She wouldn't let herself show it, but her mouth betrayed her. Probably to hide it (as girls do, never understood that), she said with more indignant head movement than was probably necessary, "I can fight my own battles, you know. I don't need your help, New York."

"Fine with me, Carmel."

And then she was grinning. "It's Cee Cee."

Susannah looked pleasantly surprised. "What's Cee Cee?"

"My name. I'm Cee Cee. Welcome to the Mission Academy."

They shook hands, and then Cee Cee, without pausing, yanked Susannah by the hand out the door, immediately launching into something about an article for the school paper, or school literary review.

I let them go ahead, laughing at the bewildered look on Susannah's face. I wanted to get a feel of the place – not a ghost feel, a normal feel. It had been a while since I'd been inside a high school, and I was curious to see how it might have changed since the 1980's – which was the last time I'd visited.

"Are you or aren't you going to hook up with her, man?" was what I heard from the first group, all boys. I couldn't help rolling my eyes as I walked on – the only thing different there from 15 years ago was that the speaker was talking on a mobile phone. The few boys around him guffawed and exchanged high-fives – completely _not_ different from what would have happened 15 years ago.

Past them, another group of boys were talking about something called 'Super Mario Bros'. I assumed it was something to do with the popular culture these days – a TV show or video game or song of some sort. From all the talk about coins and someone called Princess Peach, my bet would be on the video game.

The group of girls who'd been giving Susannah the dirty looks was talking about something called 90210, and not in the sense of the zip code.

Another group seemed to be talking about music – "I can't _believe_ you still listen to Britney! And you haven't bought The Cure's new album? We can't be friends!"

Captain Planet, Moby, George Bush and Al Gore, clothes, parties, surfing…the list went on. I had no idea what most of it meant, except the Bush-Gore issue, which I'd been keenly following for weeks. I picked out a few of the things that caught my interest – names like Pink Floyd and Madonna and Captain Planet – to look into later.

What caught my interest right now, however, was something that hadn't changed for as long back as I could remember. Popular culture changed all the time, but the behavior of people who influenced it and were influenced by it didn't. I don't know what it was about high school, but teenagers always divided themselves up into groups - as if their different interests divided them as people too. I seriously thought that the entire schooling system needed to be revised. Putting a lot of people the same age together for 6 hours everyday was unnatural, and seemed to lead to many unhealthy results. They forgot that they were all human, living in the same place, going through the same things.

I looked over at Susannah, wondering if she thought the same as everyone else. It was impossible to tell. At the moment, her new friend Cee Cee had her engrossed in conversation as she talked and laughed about her paper. As I watched, Cee Cee laughed out, loud and infectiously, and was immediately shushed by a novice. I smiled. Susannah would be all right if she had someone with a sense of humor around.

Math, then Social Studies…by lunch, I'd come to the conclusion that if Heather Chambers had somehow grown up somewhere else, home-schooled, on a movie set, anywhere, she might not have died. Anywhere she might have had adults around more often to tell her that whatever it was that had seemed so big, wouldn't matter to her even three weeks from the day. I still didn't know what it was that had caused her to kill herself; but judging by the way her group (the group that kept talking about her memorial service) behaved, it didn't matter. They obsessed about everything – from said memorial service to nail colors, sometimes in the same sentence. That kind of mentality could easily push someone prone to mental illness over the edge.

Disgusted, I broke away from observing them once I'd heard enough, in time to see Susannah throw out a fried chip. I laughed, walking over as the matron scolded her about the gulls that immediately flocked to her. The moment I entered their consciousness, they took off with the food in their mouths. Susannah, who'd been flapping at them, looked relieved. She bore her chastisement quietly, and then rolled her eyes the moment the nun's back was turned. Then she returned to watching her brothers as the people around her talked. I followed her gaze to David, who caught my attention. I listened. "So I chart Max's heart-rate with the assistance of the electrodes and the heart rate monitor on the treadmill acts like an ECG…"

"Oh, that's Bryce Martinson. No he's not on drugs. He's just sad, you know, 'cause his girlfriend died over break." The ear that I'd been keeping out for the conversation surrounding Susannah perked up. I tuned David out and followed their gaze (they really needed to be less obvious) to a boy who was sitting next to the (dozing, as usual) oldest brother, staring out at the sea a bit like an idiot. Forget about the gazes of Susannah's group, he barely noticed, much less acknowledged the people, mostly young ladies, greeting him.

"Really? How'd she die?"

"Poof a booye in ha bway," said the boy from earlier, McTavish, around a mouthful of chips. I was quite sure he meant that she put a bullet in her brain. I was also quite sure I knew whom they were talking about. He swallowed and said more clearly, "Blew the back of her head away."

You could practically hear the gears whirring in Susannah's mind, but she was doing an excellent job schooling her expression, playing the curious listener and nothing more. Good thing too, because people were still observing her like they would a celebrity.

"God, Adam. How cold can you get?" said a girl in the group.

"Hey. I didn't like her when she was alive. I'm not gonna say I liked her now just because she's dead. In fact, if anything, I hate her more. I heard we're all going to have to do the Stations of the Cross for her on Wednesday."

I know it sounds terrible, but if you consider everything known about the girl so far, not to mention McTavish's age, you really could not blame him.

The girl, Cee Cee answered in disgust, and then explained to Susannah why the Stations of the Cross was necessary, and then she and Adam had a tiny banter over the fate of suicides. She called him 'stupid', and it didn't sound like an insult. It was all more amusing than morbid, really.

'Why'd she kill herself?' Susannah asked, still sounding only mildly curious. We hung on the words that followed.

"Because of Bryce, of course. He broke up with her."

"I heard he did it at the mall. Can you believe it?"

"Yeah, on Christmas Eve. They were Christmas shopping with each other, and she pointed to this diamond ring in the window at Bergdof's, and was like, 'I want that.' And I guess he freaked – you know, it was clearly an engagement ring – and broke up with her on the spot."

"And so she went home and shot herself?" Susannah asked flatly, an eyebrow raised. I was cynical too, but more disgusted that the details were known to everybody – rumored or not. That group Chambers had belonged to had clearly put themselves under some kind of social microscope. I wondered if the Mission Academy had a school counselor. Probably not.

"Not then," Cee Cee answered. "She tried to get back together with him for a while. She called him every ten minutes until finally his mother told her not to call anymore."

The story went on, but I don't think it necessary to go into the details. I was beginning to feel increasingly sorry for everyone involved. Chambers had clearly been severely disturbed, and no one around her had had enough knowledge to diagnose the problem and get help for her. Instead, this boy, Martinson, and his family had pulled away – quite understandably, because they did not know what they were doing, and had just accelerated the decline. It was a textbook case, and tragic because this kind had been prevalent decades ago, and shouldn't have been then.

The terrifying thing was, the girl's ghost couldn't possibly be helped now. As I said, ghosts tend to preserve the state we were in when we died. She had been at the worst stage possible, and it hadn't been enough. No Stations of the Cross was going to help her, or the people she was going to target. I felt the vibrations humming around me and kept a tight hold on them.

"Yeah, well," McTavish was saying. "That was a gross error on the part of the Martinsons. As soon as she heard Bryce was out of the country, she pulled the trigger, and blew out the back of her skull, and bits of her brain and stuff stuck to the Christmas lights the Martinsons had strung up."

All right. That was probably not part of the broadcasting done by Chambers' group. That was probably not even true, and just an embellishment inspired by a video game or a film.

"The empty chair in homeroom," Susannah said suddenly. "The one by whats-her-name…" Everyone looked very amused at this, but she didn't notice. "…Kelly. That was the dead girl's seat, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," responded one of the girls, the one who'd found it so unbelievable that the Martinson boy had 'broken up' with Heather Chambers at the mall. That's why we thought it was so weird when you walked past it. It was like you _knew_ that was where Heather had sat. We all thought maybe you were psychic or something –"

This was so ironic, I couldn't help laughing a little. Susannah simply smiled and shook her head. I couldn't tell whether that was because she felt the irony or not. I could not guess at what she was thinking until she turned her gaze to the Martinson boy. Then I could guess, because we were probably thinking the same thing. Except for the fact that my concern included her.


	8. Eight

**Eight**

Heather Chambers stood in the corridor behind the Martinson boy as the students milled about, returning from recess. Her power had just exploded from her with the force of a rampaging bull, heading for the heavy rafters in the ceiling above. I was almost furious for a moment, thinking of how incredibly cruel a person had to be to completely dismiss innocent bystanders as collateral damage. But then I reminded myself she was crazy – literally – so anger was pointless. What was necessary was damage control. I surveyed the hallway instead.

We stood in a diamond – Chambers and Martinson in a line, Susannah and I in another, perpendicularly bisecting the first. Not that Susannah knew it, of course, as she stood staring back and forth between the former couple and the ceiling in horror.

Time slowed to microseconds. The ropes of energy lashed around the rafter and sliced the bonds between wood and stone. I knew I did not possess enough strength to hold the rafter in place. (Which…what was the word I'd heard earlier, 'sucked'? That would have been ideal. I found myself wishing one of our ranch hands had stayed as a ghost to help out). I could have done it if my battle was only with gravity, but Chambers, in her deranged rage, could not just leave it alone. She was pushing the rafter down with all her might.

I watched Susannah's foot lift and her body shift forward, in Martinson's direction. For any other girl, the tactic probably would not have worked – Martinson was a big, strongly built boy. Susannah, though, was lithe and unusually strong. She would probably take them both sailing past the falling murder weapon with no problem.

But, at the same time, why take chances?

I moved forward and reached out. My hand connected with the soft fabric of Susannah's jacket and I pushed, making her collide with Martinson faster. She would not know anything other than her own leap taking her forward. The wood fell with a rain of splinters, and the only thing there was to do was hold it and slow it just before it hit the floor. It fell solidly, horizontally and stayed there instead of propelling end over end and hurting any of the onlookers. The splinters had to be slowed too, of course, so that they fell about naturally enough, possibly even hurting Susannah and the boy, but not cutting. I did not know if they had had tetanus injections or not, but why take the chance?

I did this small bit amazed. I had finally matched my power against Chambers'. It was not enough, not even close. If I was an army tank, the girl was a nuclear submarine.

When the dust settled, I turned to see if the two were all right. Susannah lay across the boy's chest, breathing hard, both of them staring at the size of the piece the demon-girl had brought down. I searched her face, looking for signs that she too, had felt the power of the girl's hatred and had an answer to it. One that would hopefully involve the priest and would mitigate any future disasters in a safe way.

How did I come to this hope? I had met angry spirits before. There was a Native American man once, who did not seem to register that he and I were both dead and that he could not kill me, that I could only feel shadows of pain. I did not want to fight, except in self-defense, and I had not figured out how to hide my presence then. So I had spent much time actually hiding in places far, far away, an endeavor that was foiled often by the tenorsphere and the pull of the house. His force had been as much as this girl's. It had taught me that people who died angry were, for some reason, many times more powerful than people like me, who had no idea why we were still here.

But I had never been able to investigate the mysteries surrounding that fact because one day, he had just disappeared. I had been somewhere in France, hoping he would not find me, and then the house had pulled me, ready for yet another confrontation, back – only to be faced with nothing.

It took me that second after Chambers disappeared to realize that must have been the work of a mediator. Old Kumeyaay could not have suddenly found an alternative reason for his being in the world of the living and resolved it in the space of an hour, which was how long I had managed to escape from him. It had to have been a mediator, I realized, and that meant that mediators had to have a way to get angry spirits to…move on.

Only looking down at Susannah's annoyed expression before she rearranged it into an appropriately shocked one, I highly doubted she realized what she was facing, let alone if she had a way to force Heather Chambers on. Which left one person, who had enough experience and wisdom to place hope in, and who chose that moment to arrive, his voice parting the crowd – "Excuse me, excuse me – "

I stepped aside as the priest paused and then rushed over to Susannah and the boy, exclaiming, "Good God in heaven, are you children all right? Susannah, are you hurt? Bryce?"

Susannah's cautiousness in getting up, coupled with the awkwardness with which the boy stumbled to his feet, his mouth wide open, seemed to worry the priest. "Good gracious. Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine," Susannah said, her voice as low-pitched and calm as ever, beating at her silky coat, plucking at splinters and then looking around for the blond girl. She was good at pretenses, but slipped enough that someone watching her too closely would know something was not right. An ordinary girl would have been a lot more shaken under the circumstances. Then again, she could always pass as being braver and more admirable than ordinary girls.

Not that Susannah wasn't braver and more admirable; she was, just not for the reasons other people would think.

And were evidently thinking already. The boy was staring at her, brushing himself off, getting a splinter under a nail in the process. So much for tetanus protection.

"God, are you OK? Thank you. God. I think you must have saved my life."

"Oh, it was nothing, really," Susannah smiled, and then brushed her hand along the front of his sweater, plucking out yet another splinter. My eyebrows rose of their own accord. _Qué demonios_? What did she think she was doing?

A loud, rusty voice, however, distracted us all. "What is going on here?" A hulking man appeared, elbowing people aside, the carefully, ostentatiously placed biretta on his head announcing he was a Monsignor. He paused, taking in the dusty debris and the gigantic wooden block. Unlike the priest, however, he did not voice concern. Instead, he began to yell.

"See? See, Dominic? This is what comes of you letting your precious birds nest wherever they want! Mr. Ackerman warned us this might happen and look! He was right! Somebody might have been killed!"

I resisted the urge to levitate the block and whack it against his skull. Did he not know the thing was made of Spanish wood?

The father, however, jumped in with more of the smoothness he had displayed earlier. "I'm so sorry Monsignor. I can't think how such a thing could have happened. Thank heavens no one was hurt."

In another few sentences, he had secured Susannah for further discussion and dispersed the crowd. "It was just an accident. Run along, now."

We listened to the Monsignor go on for another few minutes about the wood that he clearly had no idea about and the birds and an archbishop. Apparently it would have been worse if a tourist or the archbishop had been involved instead of Martinson, just a regular student. The monsignor clearly had a long way to go, spiritually. "He's coming next month, you know! What if Archbishop Rivera had been standing here and this beam had fallen? What then, Dominic?"

"Of course, you're quite right," called the priest over his shoulder, already dragging an indignant-looking Susannah away from the scene. "I'll get the custodial staff right on it, Monsignor. We couldn't have the archbishop injured." His sarcasm was so gentle that it went right over the Monsignor's head. "No, indeed."

No sooner was the door of the father's office closed than Susannah, bursting with anger on the priest's behalf, shouted, "God, what a pus-head! Is he kidding, thinking a couple of birds could do that?" Now there was common sense. Hopefully the coquettishness back in the hall had just been an error of judgment induced by the fall.

I watched from my place behind Susannah as the priest walked across the room, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, and then pulled out a packet of cigarettes, considering it seriously.

"I'm not sure it isn't a bit sacrilegious, Susannah, to refer to a monsignor in the Catholic Church as a pus-head."

"Good thing I'm not Catholic, then," she shrugged. "And you can smoke one of those if you want to. I won't tell."

He considered it some more, then shaking his head, put it back. He didn't remove his gaze from it, however. "No. Thank you, but I'd better not."

Susannah nodded slowly, and there was an awkward pause. She must have disliked them as much as I did, because she walked over to one of the cabinets full of awards lining the walls, and commented, "1964. You've been around awhile."

The priest was not having it. "I have," he said, and then sitting down behind his desk, pinning her with his gaze, he asked, "What, in heaven's name happened out there, Susannah?"

She shrugged again, the father's incisive gaze apparently lost on her. "Oh, that was just Heather."

I groaned internally. _Just Heather. _Just.

"I guess we know now why she's sticking around. She wants to kill Bryce Martinson."

The priest looked distressed, as he should have. "This is terrible. It really is. I've never seen such…," he paused, staring unseeingly into the distance, "such violence from a spirit. Never, not in all my years as a mediator."

I thought of the Native American ghost, doubting he would've taken too kindly to a Catholic priest. If the father had been able to withstand that, and thought that this girl was worse, he really did understand.

Susannah didn't. She remarked, unsurprised, "Really?" and straightened up from examining the plaques and trophies, getting distracted by the window next to the cabinet in the process. It was like watching a cat again, a curious one. "Hey, you can see my house from here!"

"And she was always such a sweet girl, too. We never had a disciplinary problem from Heather Chambers, not in all her years at the Mission Academy. What could be causing her to feel so much hatred for a young man she professed to love?"

That made her look away from the distant hills. "Are you kidding me?" she asked, her tone serious now.

"Yes, well, I know they broke up, but such extreme emotions – this killing rage she's in. Surely that's quite unusual – "

"Excuse me. I know you took a vow of celibacy and all, but haven't you ever been in love?" She left the window. "Don't you know what it's like? That guy hosed her. She thought they were going to get married. I know that was stupid, especially since she's only what, sixteen? Still, he just hosed her. If that's not enough to inspire a killing rage in a girl, I don't _know_ what is."

Ha. I knew all about that one, even though Maria had not been in love with me. Not to mention she had done it in cold blood, not in rage. But then, looking back, she had been at least as, or more disturbed than the Chambers girl. I wondered, thinking about her for the first time in a long time, if, had psychological disorders been discovered a century earlier, I would have treated the Diegos any differently. Tried to get them help instead of making sure everything cloak-and-dagger they attempted failed. Then I remembered the rainy morning when Maria had died – old, shriveled, and foul-mouthed, cursing everyone and everything around her. No, I thought in revulsion. No, I wouldn't have.

"You're speaking from experience," the priest commented.

"Who me? Not quite. I mean, I've had crushes on guys, and stuff, but I can't say any of them have ever returned the favor," Susannah said, shrugging. Judging from the context, I took the word 'crushes' to mean infatuation. I made a mental note to check later anyway, because I highly doubted no boy had ever been infatuated with her. "Still, I can _imagine _how Heather must have felt when he broke up with her."

The father smiled grimly. "Like killing herself, I suppose."

"Exactly. But killing herself didn't turn out to be enough. She won't be satisfied until she takes him down with her," she finished matter-of-factly.

The priest looked down at his desk, rubbing his temples. "This is dreadful. Really, really dreadful." He looked up, again, looking at Susannah, but not really seeing her. "I've talked with her until I was blue in the face, and she won't listen. And now, the first day back, this happens. I'm going to have to advise that the young man stay home until we can get this resolved."

"How are you going to do that? Tell him his dead girlfriend's trying to kill him? Oh, yeah, that'll go over well with the monsignor."

"Not at all. With a little ingenuity, I can see that Mr. Martinson is out for a solid week or two."

He was rummaging through a drawer as he said this. I walked over, interested. Would there be a vial of something in there?

Susannah's eyes were wide in horror. "Oh, no way! You're going to poison him? I thought you were a priest! Isn't there a rule against that sort of thing?"

"Poison?" The father stopped his rummaging, looking scandalized. "No, no, Susannah. I was thinking of giving him head lice. The nurse checks for them once a semester." His hand was poised over a diary, unlike an actual box full of head lice like I had expected. I chuckled silently, surprised that they still did those checks these days. I really had not been in places with a lot of children in a long time. The mental picture of Susannah glaring at the ceiling while a middle-aged lady sifted through her scalp did not help. "I'll just see that young Mr. Martinson comes down with a bad case of them –"

"Oh my god! That's disgusting!" She did not sound any less horrified than when she had thought the priest was going to poison the boy, and I started laughing in earnest. "You can't put lice in that guy's hair!"

"Why ever not? It will serve our purposes exactly. Keep him out of harm's way long enough for you and I to talk some sense into Miss Chambers and – " It sounded like the beginning of a good plan to me, except for the disappointing fact that he still wanted to try talking to the girl. Yes, he could not feel the level of her insanity vibrating around us, but he had just seen her try and murder her previously loved one. There had to be a way to force her out of this realm, hadn't there?

"_You can't put lice in that guy's hair_." She shook her head until the ends of her hair swayed. I rolled my eyes, turning to inspect the part of the priest's office behind his desk for mediator-related information. Women are silly sometimes.

She moved to sit down, not in the chairs in front of the priest's desk, but on the desk itself. "Aw, jeez. Hold the lice, will you? Let me deal with Heather." I focused on a black and white picture of the father, young and in his early years in the clergy, fighting the urge to undo the invisibility barriers and tell them what a bad idea that would be. Too soon – there was no need for it yet, and I wanted to keep the edge of surprise against Chambers. "You say you've been talking to her for how long, now? A week?"

"Since the New Year, yes. That's when she first showed up here. I can see now she's just been waiting for Bryce."

"Right. Well, let me take care of it. Maybe she just needs a little dose of girl talk."

The father naturally looked extremely skeptical. I know something about the mysterious ways in which ladies' conversations work on each other when nothing else gets through – sisters, remember – but it was not going to work with Chambers. "I don't know. I really feel that you have a bit of a propensity toward…well, toward the physical. The role of a mediator is supposed to be a nonviolent one, Susannah. You are supposed to be someone who _helps _troubled spirits, not hurts them."

"Hello? Were you out there just now? You think I was just supposed to stand there and _talk _that beam into not crushing that guy's skull?"

"Of course not. I'm just saying that if you tried a little compassion –"

"Hey," Susannah interrupted him, swinging her long legs restlessly. "I have plenty of compassion, Father. My heart bleeds for this girl, it really does." She seemed quite earnest about it too, but then she added, "But this is _my _school, got it? Mine. Not hers, not anymore." There was a no-nonsense glint in her eye, the same one she had had while addressing that girl who had made fun of CeeCee. "She made her decision, and now she's got to stick with it. And I'm not letting her take Bryce – or anyone else – down with her."

I watched the father control his surprise. She had a way of smashing past your perfectly rational conceptions, Susannah did. Intellectually, you knew she was only a young, slender girl of fifteen or sixteen, but when she got that look in her eye, it was like she had seen everything the world could throw at her.

"Well," he said. "Well, if you're sure…"

"Oh, I'm sure. Just leave it to me, all right?"

"All right," he said, looking torn between surprise, worry, skepticism…and mild intimidation. Susannah, again, was oblivious. "Do you think you could write me a hall pass?" she asked brightly. "I don't want to get busted by one of the nuns."

He did so, looking more preoccupied than ever. "Thanks, Father, see you later!" she smiled, taking the yellow slip and leaving the office with a wave. I didn't follow her just then, feeling as torn as the father looked. I watched as he pulled out a little black leather-bound book and began leafing through it, wondering what the right thing to do was. Should I reveal myself to him, and tell him just how much of a danger the girl was? Doing that with Susannah was out of the question for now – it would take a while to win her trust and she did not need to be distracted from Chambers. But the priest? I tried to put aside the remnants of my doubts and guilt about how I had felt toward Susannah and weigh the advantage of alerting him against the disadvantage of also alerting Chambers about my presence.

Ultimately, it was feeling Susannah crossing paths with the Martinson boy again that decided it – I had to exit the office right then to watch, feeling the blonde girl watching invisibly too. I would think of how to go about introducing myself to the priest later – right now, my concealment was too valuable to give up.

"No," the boy was saying, as I rounded the corner and they came into view – him, Susannah, and a young nun. "Well, unless you count this wicked splinter I got under my thumbnail. I was trying to brush all those little pieces of wood off my pants, you know, and one of them got under there, and –"

I shook my head, disgruntled. Idiot. Everyone was going to so much trouble over this one – one person to kill him so he could join her, another two to keep him alive – and he did not have the brains to keep himself healthy and upright. Did he not know tetanus can cripple?

Susannah looked at the thumb he held up with raised eyebrows. "Yikes."

He missed the sarcasm. "I know. She used Mercurochrome too." There was, indeed, the telltale red stain peeking out from under the bandage. The school must not have a lot of money. "I _hate_ that stuff."

Susannah shook her head up at him, glimmers of light reflecting from the fountain dancing across her face. "Man, you have had a rotten day," she said, surprising me. It was a good segue into talking about the falling rafter. I suppose I had been expecting her to straightforwardly tell him to man up.

The boy stopped acting silly in response. "Not really. At least, not as bad as it would have been if you hadn't been here. If it weren't for you, I'd be dead." He looked down at her intently. Needless to say, Chambers was bristling with anger nearby, invisible – which combined with the young nun's annoyance as she looked back and forth between them while they ignored her was a little distracting. "Did you get in trouble or something?"

"No, Father Dominic just wanted me to fill out some forms. I'm new, you know."

"And as a new student, you ought to be made aware that loitering in the halls is not allowed. Both of you had better get to your classes," the novice interrupted finally. She shooed them along their way, but mollified by Susannah's polite apology, left them to it.

"You're Suze, right? Jake told me about you. You're his new stepsister from New York."

"That's me," she said, as I fell into step behind them as a shadow. "And you're Bryce Martinson."

"Oh, Jake's mentioned me?"

"No, it wasn't Jake."

"Oh. I guess people must be talking about me, huh?"

"A little," she glanced up at him, weighing her words. "I'm sorry about what happened with your girlfriend."

He shook his head, looking bewildered. Sad, too, but more bewildered. I was less annoyed now. The boy had only lived seventeen or eighteen very sheltered years, after all. His face was too smooth, even considering how well razors were made nowadays – clearly he had only recently begun to grow any kind of fuzz. How was he supposed to know how to deal with something so dark?

"So am I, believe me. I didn't even want to come back here after…you know. I tried to transfer to RLS, but they're full. Even the public school didn't want me. It's tough to transfer with only one semester to go. I wouldn't have come back at all except that…well, you know." He shrugged. "Colleges generally want you to have graduated from high school before they'll let you in," he finished with a half smile.

"I've heard that," Susannah laughed. Needless to say, that was beautiful too. It was an infectious laugh, and the boy smiled fully as he watched her. Chambers was suspiciously not doing anything – probably choosing to sit this one out, watch, and take her revenge later. Of course the boy chose that moment to offer to carry Susannah's coat, which she passed over. She definitely did not know anything about ghosts' eavesdropping abilities.

"So I guess everybody must be blaming me for what happened. To Heather, I mean."

"I don't think so. If anything, people are blaming Heather for what happened to Heather."

"Yeah, but I mean, I drove her to it, you know?" I froze in my tracks at the glint of gold, and turned around. There she was, across the courtyard, materializing into view, looking utterly anguished. "That's the thing. If I just hadn't broken up with her – "

"You have a pretty high opinion of yourself, don't you?"

A snarl replaced the anguish and she dematerialized again.

"What?"

"Well, your assumption that she killed herself because you broke up with her. I don't think that's why she killed herself at all. She killed herself because she was sick. You had nothing to do with making her that way."

I smiled. Of course she would know, if not from her experience with ghosts then simply from growing up in a bursting metropolis. Not that listening to any of this would help Chambers at this point, but still.

"Your breaking up with her may have acted as a sort of catalyst for her final breakdown, but it could just as easily have been some other crisis in her life – her parents getting divorced, her not making the cheerleader squad, her cat dying." The boy had gone very quiet, his hands in his pockets. "Anything."

You could almost hear him repeating the word in his head. They stopped at one of the doors, and Susannah took her coat back, keeping her voice low because the class was already in session. "Well, this is my stop. Thanks for the lift."

I was puzzling over what that meant – lifts were elevators, last I remembered – as she turned to enter the classroom, when the boy stopped her.

"Hey. Hey, listen. Let me take you out tonight."

I groaned as I felt the pulse in the waves around me. Surely, she would not say yes?

"To thank you for saving my life, and everything."

I mean, even aside from the fact that Chambers was bound to go berserk, there was also the fact that she had just met this boy. It was not appropriate these days to be 'taken out' by someone you just met, was it?

"Thanks, but I already have plans."

Before anyone could feel relieved, he nodded and said, "Tomorrow night, then."

She exhaled gustily, her eyes on the floor. "Look. I'm not allowed to go out on school nights." I would not be surprised, what with her history.

There was a pause. Even if this could be delayed until the weekend, it would be good, I thought. If she had to go around with him, as people did these days, at least wait until the ghost problem had been dealt with.

It was obvious that she wanted to say yes. Why she would want to was a mystery to me, however. She did not need this hatchling, and nor did Chambers. I had changed many of my views since 1950, but not the one on the recommended age gap between a man and a woman. At seventeen, boys barely begin to understand the world, while girls have well embarked on their journey to womanhood by that time.

"This weekend, then," said the boy. I knew exactly what was going to happen next, and there was nothing else to do but watch in resignation. "What are you doing Saturday night?"

Susannah looked doubtful, but eventually broke into a smile. "Okay. Saturday it is. Pick me up at seven?"

"Seven. See you then, if not before."

Her cheeks were faintly pink by the time she responded, turning to enter the classroom. She stopped then, however, and when she turned back, her face wore the expression it had when she was looking between Chambers and Martinson earlier.

"Oh, and Bryce."

He looked over his shoulder, hands discourteously in pockets. "Yeah?"

"Watch your back," she said, her voice low. The boy, predictably, thought she was joking. He grinned overconfidently, winked and continued down his path. Susannah gave her head a small shake, and entered the classroom.


	9. Nine

**Nine**

For whatever reason, Chambers did not make a reappearance for the rest of the school day. That would have been perfectly fine, too, had I not known Susannah was planning to seek her out later. Not to say that I thought the Martinson boy deserved to die – of course he did not. But how many undeserved deaths happen every day? Thousands, many thousands of people, all too young, too innocent, too good. Between having the girl harm her _inamorato_ or harm Susannah, I would easily pick the first. Especially considering that neither of the mediators had any way of forcing Chambers from the realm. Better to let her do what she was going to do anyway and then leave. Susannah's plan to intervene would achieve nothing except get her hurt in addition to what was already going to happen.

But who could or would tell her that? More importantly, convince her of it? Only one person, of course. Grimly, I concluded this was why fate had set things up this way. Killed me so that a hundred and fifty years later, I could stop this bullheaded girl from killing herself.

Her confidence in her abilities had persuaded even the Father. Everyone's admiration after the incident was not helping. As I watched little David bob up and down next to her in the car like he might wet himself in excitement, I knew this would not be at all easy.

And here I had been thinking I would not have to reveal myself for another few weeks.

It was worth it, though. She deserved to live normally, worrying about ordinary matters such as what she looked like, as she was doing right now, staring at herself in the automobile's rear view mirror. She was making a slight face like all young women do – I knew from my sisters that they do not even realize that their expressions change when they look at their own reflections. I shook my head, smiling. This was right. This was what should be on her mind, not murderous entities.

I watched them drive away – her and the Ackerman brothers, then went back into the school, in hopes of finding any information that might come in useful later. Knowledge is power, after all.

I had not achieved any new power by the time I got to the priest's office, however, the only thing even halfway worth noting being the dented door of Susannah's locker. Nor did the office prove useful. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the priest's possessions, or his phone or in-person conversations, unless you counted his out of the ordinary kindness and calming influence on people. Still, I stayed until he locked the room and left, just in case. I did note some things of interest. The Father had served as a missionary in the Vietnam War for a couple of years, for instance. He had taught biology and specialized in zoology.

Chambers was still 'hanging around', her anger pulsing as ever. But it was impossible to pinpoint her physical location. Once the Father was gone, I went back to examine the only thing of note – the locker.

I had thought there was something strange about it before, but as I looked at it, it fell into place exactly what it was. After she'd made initial contact with the locker, Chambers had kept pushing at the material, just as if a solid body had fallen into it. Most ghosts would realize very soon after becoming ghosts that they could just walk through solid material. It is standard in any supernatural stories people hear in their lifetime, after all. In fact, it takes a long time and a lot of practice after returning to Earth in this form that we can manipulate matter to behave how we want it to.

Chambers appeared to have the opposite problem. She apparently had not realized how insubstantial we could be. What was amazing was that matter behaved exactly as she expected it to. It had been years until I could make so much as a pockmark in wood, and here she could make dents in metal a simple month after her death. It came with the incredible power of angry spirits, I supposed. Not terribly smart though.

I made one last sweep around the premises, but there was nothing else. In the mellow, golden evening light, everything was quiet in the absence of the students, except the soft tinkling of the fountain, and the thrumming in my head of that ever present pulse. My thought as I dematerialized was if it was too unrealistic to wish it could stay that quiet.

I materialized with barriers up into the Simon-Ackerman living room in time to see Susannah put the receiver back onto their telephone. In the clacking of her mother's fingers on the computer keyboard, and Bradley and Mr. Ackerman's thumbs on the video game devices they were holding, and David's muttering over his homework at the dining room table, her silence went unnoticed by all.

She stared down at the phone. From her incredulous expression, I could tell that I had missed quite a conversation. I looked at the phone too, wondering if it had that recent invention that enabled people to view conversation history. Caller identification, I think it was called.

Susannah turned away and walked to her mother, who was seated before the computer. She bent and put her arms about her mother, saying, "I'm sorry I made you yell up the stairs."

Mrs. Ackerman looked taken aback. She patted her daughter's arm and said, "Oh, it's alright, Suzie. Just try not to have the volume turned up so loud when you have headphones in, okay? It's not good for your ears."

Susannah nodded in concurrence, and then left to go to her room, talking about all the homework she had left to do. Mrs. Ackerman turned away from the computer to give her daughter's back a quizzical glance. Once Susannah was out of sight, she turned back to her work, looking slightly worried. I was glad the good lady did not know what her daughter was planning – if she knew the full extent of the danger her daughter lived with, it would drive her to distraction.

I did not want to follow Susannah into her room. Not unless I knew she was definitely about to leave the house, and from the movements I could sense above us, I think she was in her powder room. Deciding that it would make more sense to come back if I felt something change rather than spy on her and have it turn out she was only getting ready for bed, I dematerialized to my favorite haunt (literally).

The Ronald Reagan Medical Center at the University of California, Los Angeles got some of the largest variety of cases in the whole world. It was perfect for me, because I often got tired when cases I kept tabs on reached the standard recovery phase. Once you see a thousand recuperating periods, you may as well have seen them all. It was getting patients there that was interesting.

Close to midnight, I felt the shift. The tenorsphere revealed that all the minds in the Ackerman residence were sound asleep, save one, which appeared to be gathering its strength. I left the operation theatre immediately.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself in front of the bay window. Susannah, clad in completely black clothing complete with hooded head, stood before her mirror. I felt tension coil suddenly in my stomach – still a strange sensation after all these years of being detached from everything. How best to approach this? She would be angry with me no matter what I did, I thought, but I could at least try to keep it to a minimum. Try not to ruffle her feathers too much.

When you want to approach an irascible cat, it is best to do so very slowly and calmly, almost as if you are not interested. It is also best to appear small and unintimidating, but I did not know what I could do about that, especially since I had so little time. _Si, _I know it is strange that I keep comparing Susannah to a cat, but what do I say? I had not had much experience with human beings who looked as if they would like to scratch my face off.

I walked over to one of her bed posts, and leaned my shoulder against it. Casual. Uninterested. Just a bystander. I took in one breath to arrange my expression, and as I exhaled, I let the barriers drop.

Susannah froze, her hands behind her ears where she had been tucking her hair away. I had one second to feel the relief that came from ending the exertion demanded by the barriers. Then Susannah said "Jeez" in a voice full of scorn. I had not the slightest idea what Jeez meant. A shortened form of 'Jesus', maybe?

She turned around, her eyes fairly crackling with anger. I am going to try to make this the last cat analogy, but _juro_, if she had been a feline, her back would have been arched, her fur would have been on end and she would have been hissing to kingdom come. So much for the gradual approach.

"Why are you still hanging around? I thought I told you to get lost."

It was an irrational reaction to have, I suppose, but after days of observing her calmly interact with the people in her life, always speaking in that calm, low-pitched, compelling voice, seeing her angry and hostile again was disappointing. I ignored it, however along with my own silly reaction, and observed her clothing now that she was facing me. The moonlight falling in from the bay window illuminated it. The hood was part of a black sweater, made of thick, comfortable-looking material. Screwdrivers and wire glinted silver in a tool belt around her waist. Black pants. Black shoes. Even the laces were black. No other plan occurred to me, so I decided to keep on with the façade of mild interest.

"It's a little late to be going out, don't you think, Susannah?" I said, returning my gaze to her face, where the scowl had deepened.

She pulled at the hood, to free her peripheral version, I think. For a moment, I forgot everything I was going to say. I had been watching her for days, but it was different, having her look directly at me. The ringing in my ears from that first day returned briefly. I could talk to her and she could hear me. I wondered, as I stood before her, as she glared at me, if I would ever get used to this. She saw me.

And I saw her. In the moonlight, her brown hair had a black shine, and her skin looked smooth as ivory and soft as white chocolate. Even more so where it met the black material at her neck. I do not think she was wearing any cosmetics. She was stunning.

Then she spoke, breaking my foolish trance. "Look, no offence, Jesse," she said, every syllable snapping with all the offence she could muster, "but this is my room. How about you try getting out of it? And my business too, please?"

I smiled. _M_y_ apologies, querida, but no._ "Your mother won't like your going out so late at night."

"My mother," she repeated, the mention of that good lady not allaying her anger one whit. "What would _you_ know about my mother?"

If only she knew. It occurred to me why that scene had stuck in my mind so. The way her mother had patted at her hand had been much like my own used to. She used to accompany it by calling me _mijo. _For the first time in a long time, I felt a pang of homesickness, for days long gone.

"I like your mother very much," I said. "She is a good woman. You are lucky to have a mother who loves you so very much. It would upset her, I think – ," (I knew), "to see you putting yourself in the path of danger."

She made a sputtering sound. "Yeah, well, news flash, Jesse. I've been sneaking out at night for a long time, and my mom's never said boo about it before. She knows I can take care of myself." She crossed her arms defiantly. Too defiantly. She might as well have added a "so there!" at the end and stuck her tongue out at me.

"Can you?" I asked, amused. She glared at my forehead, I do not know why. I looked at this incredible creature before me, this small, short-tempered, sensitive girl, and then thought of that monster from hell down at the Mission. The idea that the two might actually face off made me laugh under my breath. A cat ought not to pick fights with rabid bulls. "I don't think so, _querida,_" I said, shaking my head. "Not in this case."

She raised both her hands again, in that same gesture she had used after I had been angry at her calling me _vaquero. _The memory made me bristle a little, but I tried to brush it away. I tended to do a lot of brushing away around this girl.

"OK," she said. "Number one, don't call me stuff in Spanish."

That pulled me up short for a moment. What had I called her in Spanish? I did not have time to revise our conversation, however, because she continued, "Number two, you don't even know where I'm going, so I suggest you just get off my back."

"But I do know where you're going, Susannah," I told her. I had to. I could not let her dismiss my warning because she thought I did not know what was happening. "You are going down to the school to talk to the girl who is trying to kill that boy, that boy you seem…" In love with? No, she was not in love with Martinson. What did they call it these days? In my day, if you danced with a member of the opposite sex more than once at a _fiesta_, you or your people were likely planning to propose. "…fond of," was the best I could articulate. "But I'm telling you, _querida, _she is too much for you to handle alone. If you must go, you ought to have the priest with you."

Her mouth fell open. She seemed quite speechless for a moment, and I set my jaw, suddenly gripped by guilt. It had been for her good, after all, had it not? I had stayed away when she was by herself, had I not? Especially since that time…

"What? How could you know all that? Are you…are you _stalking _me?" She sounded strangled, and it made my neck ache with that old phantom pain.

I abandoned the casual approach altogether, pushing away from the bed post, feeling my muscles tense in defensiveness. Wondering why I felt so guilty. "I don't know what that word means, _stalking," _I said, although I had a good idea. That was probably the word I had been looking for, when I had first decided to stay away from her when she was alone. There was no denying it, though. I had been spying on her, no matter what the motivation. It was a violation of her right to privacy. I had only one justification: "All I know is that you are walking into harm's way."

She thrust a finger at me, almost poking me in the chest. "You've been following me, haven't you? God, Jesse, I already have an older brother, thank you very much."

This was the last thing I had been expecting her to say. Jacob Ackerman? Martinson's friend? Who had been dozing next to Martinson that morning, and was fast asleep right now, and who had served as the second point of introduction between Martinson and Susannah? Whose bedroom was right next to Susannah's and who, if only he looked out for his stepsister as his father had commanded him to, might have heard her moving about? Thus saving me from having to reveal myself and this guilt that was making me inexplicably want to gnash my teeth together? Susannah continued, "I don't need you going around spying –"

I had to cut in before I possibly set the mirror rattling again. Why had I not come up with a better argument before? I needed to spend less time in operation theaters, I fervently noted. "Oh yes. This brother cares for you very much. Almost as much as he cares about his sleep."

"Hey! He works nights, OK? He's saving up for a Camaro!"

What on earth was a Camaro? Why were we talking about this in the first place? It was time to return the conversation to the original point. I made a dismissive gesture, and said, as firmly as I could around the guilt and around those accusingly narrowed eyes, "You aren't going anywhere."

Susannah shook her head, one corner of her mouth turned up. "Oh, yeah? Try and stop me, cadaver breath."

She turned away before she could see it was my turn to have my mouth fall open. She had a way of getting on your nerves if she wanted to, Susannah did. First _vaquero. _Now this. She could touch me...did I have a smell for her too? Here I had felt...alive was not even the word for it. _Meaningful,_ came close. Significant. Like I had some purpose, after frankly feeling like a cobweb all these years. But apparently all I was in reality, was a reanimated corpse. I thought of the grotesque hour when I had stood above my own body, limp as a ragdoll in that _cabrón_ Diego's hands. Imagine having a dream where you die, but on waking up when the moment of death comes, realizing it was real. Looking down at your own face, lying glassy-eyed and misshapen before you.

The good thing was that this angered me enough to allay the guilt for a while. Susannah had just reached the door when I sent out my own ropes of energy, wrapping around the old deadbolt Mr. Ackerman had not been able to remove, and pulling until it met its slot in the frame.

Susannah struggled with the knob, and the longer she did, the quicker the guilt returned. Now I was violating her right to free movement, in addition to her right to privacy. Once this ordeal was over, I swore to myself, I would talk this through with her, and never resort to either of these methods again.

She looked so delicate, her back to me, her shoulders slumped, pulling at that knob pointlessly. I knew she was strong and could throw a mean punch, but in times like this, her slender frame and the fact that she was so much smaller than me made that easy to forget.

She turned around, brushing her hair away from her eyes. "OK, Jesse." There was no anger in her voice now. This did not help. "This is way uncool."

"I can't," I said. "Susannah. Don't go. This woman," I corrected myself. I had been about to say 'this woman from hell', but that might have seemed overdramatic to her. Besides, why would she believe me in her current state of distrust? " – this girl, Heather. She isn't like other spirits you might have known in the past. She's filled with hate. She'll kill you if she can."

Susannah just smiled, unfazed. "Then it's up to me to get rid of her, right? Come on. Unlock the door now."

I could see why the Father had fallen for it. When she turned that expression on you, it really made you feel like you were an idiot for underestimating her. I almost did unlock that door. If she actually had some aces up her sleeves, if she knew something I did not, did I have the right, being a stranger, to take away her right to choose what to do? Even if she did not, did I have the right?

Then I recalled the pulse of Chambers' power. Susannah did not know about it. She would be crushed. I could not let her just stroll to her death. I crossed my arms.

Her smile faded away. She shrugged. "Suit yourself." She brushed past me, heading toward the window.

I watched, frozen as a sped up version of the should I/should I not debate took place in my head again. Then she slung a leg over the windowsill, preparing to land on the porch roof where I spent so much of my time, and I lurched forward.

"Susannah," I said. She had turned, and was now staring at me as I tried to formulate an argument that would win her over. Her brows were creased. Then she lowered her eyes to her hand, and so did I, realizing what I had done.

For a half second, we both stared at our hands. Her wrist was small and my hand easily closed in a full fist around it. Her skin was warm and silken in my grasp. I released her immediately, aware of the absence of any kind of ringing or tingling now. Somehow, touching her for the second time had felt dangerously natural. She did not give me any time to apologize. She looked back up, her lips pressed together, and swung her other leg over the sill.

I watched her skip down. When her feet hit the bed of pine needles, I realized that the term she had protested against, the term I had called her in Spanish, was _querida._

* * *

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